My heart shriveled inside the gut,

like stale bread crumbs from last night.

Even two nostrils could have pumped blood,

and empty words could have churned love poetry for a living.

I could have fucked logic in that case,

and married practicality for a change.



The night was spent jostling with ghosts of a not very distant past,

the morning was all snow.

Snow, white as the leaves of a notebook at the start of the term.

Snow, white as the promise of a fairytale.

I dig for a fistful, the snow is hot;

Hot, as the ambered eyes that wept all night.

Snow, numb as forlon love.

I dig yet deeper to feel the soil,

the mulch of dead leaves and broken promises foils my progress.

A mulch, which carries the hope of verdant pastures,

once the winter is over.20150115_110441