The fire in my soul
has started to die.

It shrinks down
the trellis of my ribs
like sun-burned flower petals;

wanes itself
to but a simmer

until it is
blue in the flames

Fire needs oxygen
to burn

but

My lungs thin
into icicles

frost congeals
around my chapped
lips

veins freeze over

(and so does this inferno)

in the arctic air
the sins of the tundra are
absolved
                in passing

I miss the way that you used to fight a smile, with your eyebrows raised and mouth slightly parted--

And I miss the way the tundra crunched when I walked on it in spring, still frozen--

But that doesn't mean that I would still love you the same.

When I say that I miss you, I mean I miss being able to listen to certain songs without getting sad
being able to drive down every road without being flooded with memories
of a time we loved one another.

When I say I miss home I mean I miss the feeling of comfort the emptiness brought.  
Being able to look through childhood pictures without crying.

And my biggest fear of all is seeing you again and realizing you're not the same, and neither am I. And the love isn't there.

Or going home and knowing, it isn't how I left it and I've changed too. It doesn't bring me happiness like it used to.

When comparing things that you miss,
you start to realize:
even if you meet again, the person won't be the same one that loved you.
Just like even when you go home again, it won't be the same place you once craved.

Awash in dancing sea glass light
I watch the ocean late at night
But I have never been

The only ocean that I know
Is filled with wintry frozen snow
That God did not intend

I wander cross it in a fright
While tripping often as it’s night
And slipping on the snow

An owl wings above my head
Reminding me of seagulls led
By merchants to the coast

A barrel loaded to the brim
And sailors singing salty hymns
Assault my ears and nose

I grasp the rough hewn timber rail
And hear the snapping of the sail
Among the clapping waves

The salty air upon my tongue
Turns dark and rough and then we plunge
Upon a pitching swell

A glowing branch lights up the sky
I see it though I’ve closed my eyes
And shines upon some hell

I know it from my darkest fears
And shun such moaning from my ears
All thought has lost its perch

Wait, no more am I staring out
Aloof, aghast, about to shout
Now I see ice-glazed birch

They shiver slightly with the cold
A breeze picks up and takes its hold
On sounds from far away

A quiet whisper fills my head
The voice that wracks a soul with dread
And grabs me by the feet

I stand there frozen to my spot
But seeing only driftwood rot
And float away from me

The icy hand that grasped my throat
And pricked my skin and thinned my coat
Now plays his lilting harp

I fall into a deepened sleep
His lullaby like counting sheep
And nod off in the snow

When I awake, a tropic storm
Has thundered in to greet with warm
But hellish gusts of air

The bitter road
With walking feet and identical pace

     Fear not

For they are all just shadows underneath
Just ghosts beneath the turquoise ice

     Quiet as can be

And you will not fall
You will not falter

As you have colder blood within your veins
Than in every surreal arctic peace

The Spring
detests the girl
with the ivory complexion,
dollops of rosy flesh
sunk against her face
like discarded peach pits
(and discarded
is she.
forgotten
is she).

Mother Nature's
Alabaster *******,
they've dubbed her.

And tried Mother Nature
to preach tranquillity
to her daughter,
a reminder to always keep
still
amidst any tempest
****** into her path.  

But mother,
I am the tempest.

Come tomorrow morning,
the spring snow
will have melted,
but frigid I shall remain.

Dissonant and
storm-wrenched
I shall remain.

All the world begins to thaw
as I loll about in
the tundra of this loneliness.

When dawn arrives,
I will draw the curtains
before the rising sun
shoots me that beam
of apocalyptic grin.

The world is not ending,
you will tell me
(but mine is).

I have always existed
separately
from the rest,
you see.

The bright evenings and the even brighter mornings.

The unmistakably poignant scent of freshly-cut grass.

Marmalade sunsets that descend effortlessly into their celestial counterparts.

Flowers blossoming to profound vibrancy.

I wish I could tell the flowers
it is only a matter of time
before some wandering child
will rip apart their petals
in a ruthless game of
“He Loves Me
He Loves Me Not.”

(Child,
I Know this game
all too well—
the perils of picking
an even number
of petals).

And it is only a matter of time
before autumn dolls out
its wiltings.

I am also well accustomed
to the art of wilting,
you know.

The only difference
between me
and the sunflowers
is that the spring
belongs to them.

It is the epoch
of renewal,
of second chances
in spite of their inevitable
witherings,
both past and future.

But the present--
the spring--
it will always belong to them.

I know not
how it feels
to heal alongside
the sunflowers.

I know not
what it means
to shed the prospect of
death
even if it is only
temporary.

My heart is caught
in an impenetrable limbo.

Tell me
Mother Nature,
how do I move on?

For letting go
seems a foreign enigma
to me.

So,
really,
what else am I to do
but draw the curtains
each sunrise?

As I am left to weather
the deluge
while all the world blooms,
as I am left to
pour,
I desperately
await the
rain.

For it is only
in the rain
that I shall return home.

It’s the hunger that drives the Wolf and I
out— all across the icy expanse of tundra.
We stop at the edge. Just for a moment.
One look into each other's eyes, both of us
knowing the other doesn’t taste very good.

And so it begins.

Indigenous knowledge and unwritten tradition
Ritual dances and pagan gods
She speaks to the deads
Heals the deepest wound
Whispers to the reindeers

But one day people with skins, the colour of snow, came
Untouched by her wisdom
Nothing she could do to stop them
The land was soiled
Purity went away

she was a tundra
the photos were so pretty
but now you miss home