Cold Hearted

the calming time

cotton wool squeak

beneath my feet

the air

crisp with cold

crystal palaces

cut from ice

nose and mouth

streaming mist

vivid blue sky

the lake cupped

by mountain hands

in a caring gesture

frozen feet deep

covered with snow

the calming time

distant voices

carried on a

biting breeze

cheeks frost rouged

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 icy freedom cracks the hull
death's ode screeching to a hault
i named the ratchet in my skull
"Stillbourne Small, the catapault"

found wading in marshy bogs of chuke
saved by crows and carrion alive
woven by blood and the almighty nuke
seeds from whence i was derived

perfect gods and perfect men
can't live outside their pastel pens
there's work to do: the dirty, the wet
and i haven...

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