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Before morning, she wakes, adrift still in half-remembered dreams, dirtied by ghost footprints upon the waking to muddy tread marks ever present, no matter the hours spent in scrubbing— the marks indelible— tattoos of mud. Leave her to the simple tasks of morning, to her daily reckoning, preparations of covers and cases required, all the hiding away, layering as if for winter, this bandaging of tender spots.
I gather hardened scars of loss and damage
Braided into keloid beauty
That are not blossoms of bitterness,
But fragrant beauties
That make me who I am.
Even the bars of your barren garden
Called love could not steal away
The essence of my hope.
Instead, the black, barrenness
within sugar syrup words
Of one never able to love
Contain no acid
To eat away
My skin of hope.
No winning in this loosing.
Chunks of soil eroded,
Carried away by this freezing rain.
No artifice found in storm winds,
leaving an icy slush of blood
In the veins,
Or the heated words you
Coated with never melting ice.
The fire you set
Left forever unkindled.
How you must love your
Barren winter landscape,
A frozen revenge,
A frosty meaningless game.
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