of snow you grow cold. Crushed beneath
the sharp ice you harden as a steely knife. Oil’s
beneath the layers, a Michelangelo painting,
straining to soften beneath the winter coffin.


When you live life covered in a blanket
of lies truth is a butterfly. It flutters past
you. Can you catch the winged apprentice,
or shall it knock you senseless?

When you live life covered in a blanket
of leaves, a breeze can scatter you. Not like
a nest firmly packed, high in the trees. Can you
go on with no notes to the song? How shall you
string it together, with wax and leather.?