i am the aftermath of war,
the tidings that you dread.
the heart when very sore
in a lonely unmade bed.
i find you in the darkness,
alone at 4am,
when guilt is but a wilderness
and night is at an end.
you see me in the shadows
of a long-forgotten grave;
in alleys that are narrow
and seldom ever paved.
you hear me in the sobbing
of a child lost from home;
in the cries of a wolf howling
at the pale and distant moon.
you call me something different
in each corner of your earth,
but recognize me even in
foreign looks and words.
sorrow is a pretty way
to give despair a name,
but sometimes you cannot say
so much in words so tame.
littered with musty thrift stores of sanguine novels
shakespeare’s sonnets, greek myths, period dramas, they sit
where lovelorn girls wrap themselves in dated romance
disconsolately punching lost constellations into their stomachs
whimsical minds wandering in desuetude
snagging quixotic blooms in momentary lapse
through wildflower fields obsolescent and crude
scraping floral corpses from metaphorical kneecaps
perhaps the cold is not the enemy
because, like in sleep, we lay in warmth for hours,
only disturbed by the presence of the morning
lifting sleep from our eyes, and casting our dreams from our minds
much the same does the chill of the cold rouse us from our daydreams
and push us from the metaphorical sleep we live in.