Skip to main content

The Dead of Winter


The cold is a knife-slice on the skin.
The heart says no, over and over. 
This is not what you want. 

What you want is that plush crimson 
blanket called love: the pulsing 
blood-rush that provokes 

a minimetamorphosis. An object, 
held by a gaze, radiating being. 
You would say passion but a demon

has sewn your lips shut. The silver 
needle lies there like the melting
sunlit snow beneath your feet. 

It looks up as if to ask, Tell me, how 
often do you feel the way you feel?



This question is for testing whether or not you are a human visitor and to prevent automated spam submissions.

Recommended Reading