I pick them so
fragile
Like
glass skeletons
And I stare through them
At the
empty reflection of me
A tiny burning
ember of
A life that was once complete
And realistic in its madness
But now
the wind is soiled
They scatter away
Like
dying women and
Unfound dreams
Locked in a prison of my own hatred
The cold
blood-snow descends
Reflections gnaw quietly
On
self-serving fingers
And now the only role
Yet to be played
Is myself