The smell of winter seeps in–
creaks in between the leaves
long dead on the ground.
It tickles your nose–
it trickles down your throat.

The cold traces
your skin and grasps
your bones, gripping
you in the throes
of a bodily shiver.

It reminds you of the perennial routine–
of the birds, they flee the scene until spring–
and how the trees resemble skeletons
or their summer selves.

But somehow,
amongst all this silence
that comes only with
the death of everything,

you feel so alive.

If you could float upon the wind-
drift yourself to dry land-
you would surely see the shore.
You would walk through time-
accumulating moments in every grain of sand-
covering you in a coat of age
until the day when you leave footprints no more,

and you become the scenery.

White halls of brick walls
with falls not high enough.
Stairs feel like scissors with
every sutured step–
careful caution like a wet floor.

Watch my life on a foreign film:
subtitles scroll across buildings–
displaying discussions and
skyscraper sentiments
as actors play puppets
of dolls on strings–
portray such alien emotions–
crystal facet on a diamond ring.
And somewhere–
I think I've been here before.

Punctuate each portion of the night
with truncated lamp posts–
marred beacons of my sanity.
I plan to be a robot– step in time.

No life force but gravity–
press me to my bed–
I'll wake up to another asylum dream.

Hunger pangs recall
A similar empty feeling
Like that hand print in the perfect snow angel-
A scar from getting back up-
A mar that takes away
From the beauty of the individual-
But alone- a mark so beautiful-
A new foundation for an old display.
But it leaves you wanting-
Remove the rock from your shoe.

Desperate attempts to hide the evidence
Lead to discoveries that enlighten.
Like the gum underneath the table-
A hidden mosaical mistake
That goes unnoticed by cursory eyes.
Appearances can be deceiving

As exhaustion weighs upon cognition
Like an x-ray vest,
it presses invisibly on the heart,
Like an insidious hand.
Head ties heart with an impalpable
puppet string-
A pulp of fictitious dreams.
And weariness turns to weakness
When the subtle dagger of sleep severs all seams.

Silent nocturnes drag your consciousness
Through the scum of the subway-
Subconscious realm.
Force the revival of relivings of relic cuts-
Dwell in the blood before the scab.
The quagmire preserves the corpses of your otherwise ethereal past,
And what sinks in your waking skull floats to the top in the bog of sleep-
Sick buoys like bloated bodies in the wake.

Time is a sadistic friend
That no one can refuse.
But as shadows wax and wane,
The gnomon measures relief.
Present only in the pastime of healing.
A welcome hand in the grip of gravity-
As reliable a friend as time-
A ploy to prevent the print in the snow.
But that which rises must also fall,
Like the blindfold lended by time.
With an absence of appearances, none can deceive.
He let each one down after all.

Finality tolls like a bell,
And if you try to deny your signature,
You forget you signed at conception.
Then time unwinds the fibers of repair-
Made from borrowed blindfold moments-

He makes you march from healed dark and into your unseeing light.

Crickets scream rickets
with their backwards-bent legs.
Tell me sweet lies from your violin head:
sing to me about the weather,
or black cats running through wind.

Sing to me– sway–
lead me astray.

Dead leaves scratch pavement–
sidewalk chalk delineates
cracks that hold nothing back
but the black in your over-wet eyes.

A sting so hot it boils
the broth in your bones–
skewed from the lies
I've been hearing each night.