whirls a storm
of scarlet and crimson
the cobweb drips
and black and blue

black blue shrouds
the bleeding petals
torn
ragged
scabs and scars
blowing across the snow

desert voices
in a white room
stark and naked
i
walk slowly

twisted grey and sometimes purple
rarefied and far too dense
i walk
i walk
and every now

and then
i pick up a piece
like shards of glass
some mirrors
and i don’t know
if i throw it away
if i lose it
if i store it for sustenance
to inflict
to understand
who.

who.

standing on a cliff
in a silent blizzard
crumbling
and dreaming of kaleidoscopes
all the pieces always fit
and i don’t know
i won’t take the one with the sharpest edge
and make the cut
to end all cuts.

__

[More in "dreaming of kaleidoscopes", available for download (at no charge) at chriswind.net)