Winter comes pushing
up against the glass,
ice sliding like a guillotine,
ready to slice into a scream.
I wipe my breath
from the windowpane.
I could be rain.
No matter,
dying is blind and deaf,
exhausts my eye for beauty.
My soul begins to glow,
a bastion against what's dead.
My voice draws a new breath,
tells the tale anew.
copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011
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