Winter and All Her Friends

Winter and all her friends come trudging down, pounding like the migraine-cage of your memory, your temples tingle with electric frost, each ventricle and cell moving fast like a powerline, sparking with the fireworks from last New Years Eve. You curl your fingertips into armoured fists. You’re beginning to blue like cyanide choked up in your wrists. Winters got her cold hand fastned on the pulse of your neck, you’re beginning to blue, you’re begging to lose, losing colour in your lips, pale like the sheets of your ex-lover. You’re beginning to swirl and dizzy like a crane gone wild, stuck in a forever reverie of what's near, far, and gone. Winter has obsidian eyes and a giving hand that reaches like a short rope; she speaks with an angelic tongue and a mouth gaped open like an omnious gate; isn’t it beautiful how life becomes death and death becomes mystery?