morning’s iridiscent branches spread under the dome of mist; 

frost breaks under my steps as i walk among the tall pine trees in the forest; 

silence tastes like snow on my tongue;

a scream is trapped in my chest - winter’s bird-of-doom

entangled in the hour between sunrise and the end of the world;

why am i following the same trail of mourning, drowning again in guilt and self-pity?

wish i had a home to go to, an embrace waiting for me or a hand to hold mine.

from unfinished thoughts and broken longing, memories fall away like leaves in autumn.

regrets roam, frantic, on the path of new fears.

i’ve got nothing to say to the ghosts hiding in the frozen earth.

i will forget.

i will forget. 

not now. one day.

in oblivion we trust.

black ink spilling over endless fields. afternoon drive on empty country roads in the winter rain; it feels like being in a fish tank and trying to breathe under water. i stop nowhere; i get out of the car; i listen to the waiting: it is thick as mud; wind whispering, trying to lift the heavy sky just another dream higher; a stray beam of light coils around the trees and makes them glow; i shouldn’t have left home even if it felt like dying under the burden of that silence. where can i go: journeys have left me.

early morning the garden was floating in the air - mist and black earth and camellia trees with cold-burnt flowers and all; I thought it was a good sign: it weighed less on her frozen body in its shallow grave. the flapping of wings among branches must have been the voice of god calling her name.

have you ever noticed -

decisive things always take place

in doorways, on borders, on edges.

when the fall into the abyss seems imminent

or trespassing is danger unfolding

then the only thing that makes sense

is to laugh at the final joke;

perhaps for you, only for you

and just this one time,

to fall is to fly.