"Clouds all streaming away like ghost fish under the ice."*

Has it been some inexcusable torture that you've severely experienced?
Fragments of lost emotion, particles of pain, an inclination towards cold air?
The windowpane sings today, it summons, and rejoices at my expression.
In a colorless world, a green tint is desirable.
The same muddy steps; figures crouched under growing obscurity.
Pressed in our position, grimy and soiled on a lost shelf, mangled by the draft.
Has it all been captured and restored, read and remembered?
The pressure tears limbs apart, their spines look disfigured.
Eventual dissipation of weight, and how unburdening light illuminates cement streets.
Springs sunrise and the pages turn,
Creating their own wind.