Winter Song

frost has crusted the machinations of my mind

clawed its way into the amgydala

drowned the hippocampus solid.

set ablaze the occipital lobe.

 

i see in blues and greys now and feel

the crack of branch underfoot and the cold grit

in the knee of the boy that trips over

the not-so-permafrost on his drive way.

 

the rivers of a body run blue and white

and the caverns of skin freeze-thaw

until i am cracked open and

the cryogenics of winter preserve the carcass

 

cigarettes cannot power a steam combustion engine

and this fag is not a Snowpiercer

frost has crusted the machinations of my mind

if they defrost only liquid remains

 

 

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