"Still unbearably cold."
Angela Moreno 

This morning before
I ever lifted my head,
I turned to see
Your half of the bed.
And what a harsh reminder
Of how I'm growing old
With your side of the bed
Still unbearably cold.
Your sheets are not tossed,
Your pillow unpressed--
All lovely reminders
Of my current distress.
Was it not merely a month ago
That I was curled against your skin?
We were perfect puzzle pieces,
Your shoulder to my chin.
All day long
We would curl up and sleep
With nothing like time
And business to keep.
But what a terrible disease
Lurked inside my mind.
I never thought I could be
So selfish and unkind.
If only I had known
I was capable of such sin
I never would have let
Our cursed romance begin.
I could promise to never
Let it happen again.
I could take my pills
Like I refused to then.
I could be so much better,
My darling, please see.
If only, if only
You'd come back to me.

"the cruel face of cold shunning"
Melody W 

Remember not the decay,
the cruel face of cold shunning
embers ceaselessly illuminating circularity -
by this time next Spring,
a completion of the
first increment of three
measuring your absence;
the rain pelting down upon us
shan’t amount to these
tired whispers of re-unity;
instead we command this moment,
healing ourselves to complete the cycle.

"out into the cold,"
Melody W 

Where once
there were four,
now three remain

lone spirits traipsing
out into the cold,
pale faces faintly

illuminated by a
quaint harvest moon
(untimely at best)

wind biting ankles,
pushing shadows down
the meandering path

memory of those
chilling last hours
why are you stopping?

heavy hearts, hands
furious in futile attempts
to infuse warmth into limbs

my dear mother, please
do not tether him to
this decaying body;
he has long since

flown away.

"grown cold with a film that no amount"
Melody W 

Sullen branches snake around,
ensnaring this putrid temple once more,
no longer entranced by the mellow song
reverberating from the deep hollows

I cut just below the dotted lines
to preserve sanity - disrupted order
fleeing like a thief ashamed at forgetting
his mother's name in the failing light

These watchmen await, unseeing eyes
grown cold with a film that no amount
of purifying ritual could ever restore,
much like the panels of unforgiving night

Ah, the travesty of resolute desire
hidden under terrible, heavy cloaks
of the most peculiar kind!
Forlorn threads still hang
from the bare branches
of a love worn thin.

"the silent, cold sparrow without a pulse,"
Melody W 

Tread lightly near the clearing;
there is no telling which plants
contain pure poison nestled in
waxy smooth petals and stems

Pretend not to notice effervescent
purple flowers strewn about the forest floor -
vulnerable creatures pulled from nesting places
and carelessly tossed aside

Curiously seek and find near a clump of irises -
the silent, cold sparrow without a pulse,
cramped on its side, lurid flesh showing
more than it had in life, features oddly twisted

And grasp the knowledge that it belongs
to the earth now, requiring neither proper burial
nor the slightest acknowledgment of the fact
that it is no longer among the living

"n, I shall give you two birds, one from cold"
Melody W 

Give me two stones, smooth and
unassuming as the still lake in my mind;
in return, I shall give you two birds, one from cold
nether regions of all you hold dear, the other
ever close, quiet and eager for your touch.

Very soon, you will realize that
even in the dead of March,
rivers ache for the whole of your
essence, mirroring this absence of love

"turn their backs to the cold"
Melody W 

she picks her way through the rubble
skipping barefoot down the black cement road
past the dilapidated house of childhood
still suspended in a  forlorn dream

the sudden onset of callous pleas
an unheard requiem that plagues all else
cascades with a sharp echoing cry
down her unfeeling back

silently, the dissatisfied corpses
of these cement dreams
paling in the acerbic light
turn their backs to the cold

and awaken once more.

"this cold pond,"
Melody W 

Knotted in odd places,
like spines of ancients,
the result of wisdom accumulated
yet unequally distributed

But no beauty lies in uniformity

So they continue to grow,
feeding from oblivion and pulsing with life,
rooted in still waters, yet aspiring for heights unseen.
The slow growth of these skeletal soldiers,
echoing the most minuscule of movements,

Awakens fluidity from her sleep

Yawning off silent energy
that reverberates throughout
this cold pond,
and entices brilliantly colored koi
to congregate at the surface,
mouths gaping open with eagerness,
delighted at the prospect of nourishment -
while all around, the night awaits,
trembling with anticipation,
releasing delicate aromas of jasmine;

Easily overlooked, yet lingering in one's subconscious

And the last drops of fragrant jasmine tea will evaporate,
revealing the pale, moon-like center
of porcelain teacup -
a glaring reminder
that when fluidity changes its course
and disappears from sight,
one is forced to gaze down at one's own reflection

And become reacquainted with mortality

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