twelve hours in winter

10:30 a.m.

it has rained whispers and unrest all morning.

i am almost ready: my luggage packed, my mind set.

i once had a dog i loved so much - she appeared to me in a dream last night:

i was driving on a deserted road, slowly, watching her in the rearview mirror

in disbelief and a kind of wonder that felt like an ice corset;

the dog ran after me but vanished in the corner of my eye before catching up.

i woke up crying and remembering how unworthy of her love i had been.

11:45 a.m.

i take photos from the train window - a blue ribbon blurring tree tops and 

half-alive villages; blinking views like ghost-birds on the memory screen.

a few more hours to the destination.

2:15 p.m.

everything could have been different:

the beginnings were good except for some corners filled with blackness;

they didn’t matter at the time but in those obscure pockets of the days,

away from light and truth, toxic weeds sprouted; 

in time, they grew into a forest where

love didn’t thrive, sacrifice didn’t meet reward.

everything was a lie, i found out later.

4:45 p.m.

the city breathes dust and a stench of madness; 

fruitless trees line the slippery streets of the same old labyrinth;

sinkholes open at crossroads; neon lights tear at the fabric of sunset.

i have never felt more alone and sick.

7:30 p.m.

it’s dinner time; i’ll have the same broth of empty shells.

lies are the bread of the broken, the heartless, the cursed.

they are the moving seas that drown our fragile ships

and the light we carry within.

there is no shore to sail to, no island to take refuge

on planet lostness.

defeat is written in the great ledger;

from the very first time we borrow the promise of happiness;

we sign our sentence at the bottom of a blank page.

10:30 p.m.

as they lied to us

so we shall lie to them

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