Too much cold

white, alight,

cryogenic crystals

 

lash my soul.

 

You send me songs

too late, too far

from who I have

 

become.

 

My lips burn:

those lips that only

say goodbye

 

& you wonder why

you wonder why.

 

I shed my skin

in layers each night

hallucinogenic dream

 

I’m living in.

 

Outside the field

is white with frost

cold impersonal;

 

have I become

the butterfly

that clings

 

to what it knows?

 

My shattered heart

pupates to stone

like iron ground

 

until its flaw flows

spring water.

 

 

(Listen to poem here)