Day: October 9, 2025

Winter

Glittering silver snow lines Winter’s home, furnishing it with comfortable coldness and arctic blue mood. My spirit lives in winter, jealously watching the rich earth for the arrogant arrival of tulips. All is sleeping and heavy with the weight of dead leaves. Ghosts build fires in their encampments by the frosty river. My name is a river rearranged. My name is arraigned. My personality sails by, trailed by sharks.

On the Cusp

The bluebirds nest on the cusp of my awareness. What is beyond my awareness is bright light and new colors. At my dark periphery, morose shadows of old pleasures, crumbling to ash in the weight of God’s judgment on them. The baby bird will fly away soon, to the morose forest choking the back of my throat. Regret is heavy, and it sucks in many to its great gravity.

Language

Language babbles like a brook in the snaggle toothed mouth of a baby, but pour like the falls from my cherry juice lips that shine with adoration so my soul mate can see himself in the gleam of my smile. Language smells perky and pertinent and penitent. She lures Silence to his death. Language belongs to no one, and so leaves me every day to rut in the autumnal mouth of another while my mind wanders over a plane of math so wild, imaginary numbers grow like brambles, piercing me. My pureed mind leaks out.





November is Coming

Velvet encases me like a casket at this party I snuck into. My dress is filled with frills and thrills, a slinky black little thing exposing my soft porcelain thighs to the crushed purple velvet. Death is LARPing as October, and no one knows he’s in costume. Ghosts glow glacier blue and just as cold. November watches from behind the velvet curtain, ready to wash away childhood and joy. November with her blue eyes, onyx hair, and burns all over her body from a thousand candles.




Nothing

I read my bones for answers to all my problems with my x ray eyes. In the hollow tree of winter, a raccoon and a plague of rose scented blood. Winter burrows into my name. Snow fills the chambers of my personality. Suddenly when I speak, hail pops out. My x ray eyes and cold hands pry the truth from the fingers of my enemies, who run a ghost factory in my yard. They are hiring – for ghosts. My eyes are glass anyways. Why not apply? I have lots of experience with zero.