because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

she walks blindly through the fall

year turns yellow, lingers,

twisting the thin threads of my hair

between sticky fingers;

summer’s promise
yielding to the pressure

of ten degrees too few.

soul sickens

just a little

in the face of another winter

bitter and sterile;

blue shadows etched

over what was once white skin

and green grass.

sleep, sleep;

forget this realm

of might-have-beens

as spider-webs gather between the toes

of last season’s dream.


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