Funny thing about days--
they bleed into the night, and repeat
with a vicious symphony of endless
chords that breaks then betrays;
never before, only after
a grand introduction, reduced to a clatter
filled with promises, not fulfilled:
can't or won't, I don't know which, and
what the hell does that matter?
it hurts, just the same
where the winters grass or the leafless trees
lay naked, shivering in the night
where the light had once been,
dying in the midst of the deep freeze
where the nights bleed into the days
with a vicious symphony of endless
chords that breaks then betrays
as the sound of the frost falls across
my soul; like the sound of glass
falling from careless hands.
