Something cold has entered me
Icy fire between by shoulder blades
Misting breath and stealing color
My chest contains a barren winter
My gut, a desolate tundra
My soul has iced over
There is no warmth left in me

h.f.m.

when your two options are
the impossible
or
the unthinkable
what can you choose,
without scarring all who have become ensnared?
a catch-22
it would almost be funny
if it weren't
so
****
sad

h.f.m.

Tracing the concrete-cracks in the overgrown lot
You'd think it is a perfect metaphor
A strong foundation, forgotten and worn
Left to the weeds and the tender-violent care of time
A body turned inside-out and unravaled
A slow, gentle unbecoming
The ever-eventual death of a world

h.f.m.