Smoke, on a cold winter day
Fills the air
Caresses her face
Cherry blossoms float in the distance
Snow drips silently onto her nose
And as it does, she realizes, she drifts in the breeze
For a moment, her pain is stalled
And all is still in the woods
The trees, her brain
No longer shake with distress
But calmly are ribboned with cold
To make her forget
Of the night he broke her
With just two hands and
A lust that could fill the town
He broke her
But today, she is whole
Twenty below, and she is whole

Baby, you're so soft
The purity of your soul
Makes me fall in love

last night i dreamt of life without you
   which was more like a nightmare
i am addicted to you,
                   my dear
consumed, possessed

so don't be alarmed
when i say you're mine

How can they drain a poem a day, written in ink, destilled emotion,
How can they strain to do poems that take a month to read,
                                                       that is a lot of ink to bleed.
Is it possible to write, adding colour to leaves and sheaves of
words,
hanging them on dried and dead winter branches, STAY!,
with where my imagination rests frozen,
out there in the open,
                        hoping, looking, seeking
the friction of distraction to warm me up,
so my imagination moves,
it needs to move,
or I become frozen,
where there is an ill wind,
where there is a chill wind,
which hardens my heart,
and drys up the ink,
which looks like
my
own
blood
without
Purpose or
without
Prose

P and P


©DWE122013