t h e d e a d o f w i n t e r

June 1, 2012

t h e d e a d o f w i n t e r

i.

Hope is beautiful.

It hangs in the air
above our heads,
spinning, shining
like sunlight, or
a piece of crystal,
dancing in its
aurora borealis,
shape-shifter way,
never quite holding
still for long enough
to make sure it’s real.

         
But we go on

                            and on

                                                and on,

                                                                        not caring.

ii.

The problem with fear is that it begets more fear.
The problem with sorrow is that it begets more sorrow.

iii.

A small kiss lingers on my cheek.
A snowdrop,
a tear.
They string diamond necklaces down my face.
How melodramatic,
how sublime.
(How pitiful,
how pathetic.)

iv.

You see, I have dragon’s teeth,

but you’ll have to kill me to raise your army.

         
So tell me to stop hoping.