How strange it is
This comfortable sorrow
Sinking between the pages words awash around you
These heart-holding hands that fill your chest to empty
A lovely sort of sadness in others' words
Like a soft blanket atop a feather pillow

Yet in a bed
Where one side is left bare and empty

It began like this

A dulcet little stream,
a secret winding path, and
two sole salty-scaled trout
wondering if there is something to be said about
The Road Less Traveled.

It ended in the sea
the crashing, wide and
Travelled sea.

A blanket of
fractures,

ample rigid structures

A liquid
               s
                e
                 e
                  p
                   s

             the   t   cold
                     r
        frigid   o   fragments
                    u
                    g
           ­   of   h   the

                 north


Where tufts gather in the sherbet of -frozen- dust

The glistening indigo amongst
the platinum
blanket

I shiver.

The cutting
wind

admires the empty
shell

for I stood
there

Gazing at the
noise

Cut black.

In transparent fallacy
The temple of glass amongst the cold
golden

sun

speaking       to                  -me-
referring
pointing                  g
lo­oking         at     n           -me-
                             i
                        ris
                   up
         in an

warcry

i t n e v e r s l e e p s

but
I
awaken.

Through the morning light.
The frost shines off of the trees.
Now, a cold morning.