A gentle chorus wafts through the air as abandoned castles sigh, like a cat resting in a sun patch, and ancient cathedrals unitedly chant the song of religious history.
U nveil the glistening treasures deep within the mines of the mountain side; feel the butterflies in your stomach as you dive down the shafts.
S ing the song of the Alps as they enchant you with innocent snow and seductive diamonds, with charming forests and guilty avalanches.
T aste the morning brew on your tongue, basking in the warmth on the cafe patio, listening to the street musicians purify the tourist's ears.
R ed rooftops, orange balconies, yellow sunsets, blue skies, purple chocolate bars. But nothing is green here; for this land envies none.
I return through the skies like the prodigal son, having gone for so long, missing the life I was born to live; but everything is different now and the streets I once called home have become foreign.
A ustria, my mother, I remain an orphan.

- p. winter

One in the morning.
My "home away from home" is
Not home without you.

Two in the morning.
Our time zones are parallel.
My dusk is your dawn.

Three in the morning.
Jet lag induced writer's block.
Yet poetry flows.

Four in the morning.
I still hear your heart beating.
My dear, I miss you.

Five in the morning.
I should sleep but, instead, I
Pour out love letters.

Six in the morning.
So close yet so far, only
An ocean away.

- p. winter

I can’t explain, my dear,
Why some days I feel like an albatross with wingspan wider than the Pacific ocean.
Feathers reflecting the hues of forget-me-not blues and tiger lily oranges as the breeze carries me through the ever hypnotizing sunset.
And yet,
Some days I am but a turtle facing skyward. An anxious bundle of awkward kicks and pathetic wobbles as my feet try to ground themselves once more. The very shell protecting me from danger having betrayed me as it holds safety in front of me on a fishing rod, like a carrot tempting a mule.
I can’t explain, my love,
Why every evening I pump myself with capsules of chemicals to dissolve into my bloodstream like sugar into iced tea: It’s sole purpose to sweeten my taste and leave everyone begging for more of the refreshing treasure that is my happiness. Knowing very well that without my sugar, I would be nothing other than a glass of bitter herbs in tainted water. My ice cubes melting as I sit in the sun, unwanted.
I can’t explain, my darling,
How your eyes are flames that pull me out of every darkness except that that leaves me rocking under the dining room table. Not because they don’t have the power to, but because I have grown too tired to let them. Too tired of the pity you hide so well in the colour of your irises. Too tired to let you bring the laughter you once found in me back to the surface. It has been drowned one too many times.
I can’t explain, my treasure,
Why, after years of fighting, I have yet to win this battle against myself. This war, within these bone walls, that I have slowly been losing… praying for the relief of a white flag… no longer caring which side wins.
Why my blood stained thoughts — cognitive gun shots — dye my snow-white mind a furious shade of scarlet; poppies on a cross grave.
I can’t explain, my everything,
Why bridges start to look like trampolines
And razors feel like skipping stones.
Why God no longer sounds so mighty
And families make you feel even more alone.
I can’t explain why,
Some days I can soar

And some days I’m stuck on my shell.
But to love once again,
To see beauty in life,
For that
I am fighting like hell.

- p. winter

S oaring over cotton clouds, so close you can feel them
E levation rising, even the peaceful feel butterflies
V ery little leg room, time to pace the aisles
E astward we fly, the Atlantic waves wave from below
N othing compares to watching the Sun rise from a front row seat in heaven

H ow magical, and powerful, to glide with the wings of an industrial bluebird
O ver mountains and skylines, even skyscrapers become building blocks, leaving nothing left to be awed
U ltraviolet rays weave by on their way to scorch soft skins
R estless temper tantrums of rebellious winds cause turbulence

F lying with my head in the clouds
L iterally
I think of how many miles each passing minute puts between us
G ently but surely this machine pulls me away from your embrace
H ow long these next few weeks will last
T il I see you, back home, again

- p. winter

I feel my skull shrink.
Mental voices scream as the
Walls slowly compress.

- p. winter