Have I lost my heart, thrown it out into the snow?
Have I lost my sensitivity, my ability to love?
I have become numbed, like the heart that rests in snow.
So many years, all passing deftly.
With anguish I drew close to all who offered shelter;
though in appearance I perched in solace and unruffled unbending.
Finding no purchase I tried to take to wing; to fly colourfully, gracefully, without ending
Without anger, pitched forth in harmful battles,
I drew inside what wasn't mine to fathom,
or to cradle:
I became encased in layers of unseeing.
Glazed eyes gazed out but only the mind was wakeful.
How many sights I missed - the colour of your eyes
when you screamed me to the edge of myself,
pools of rain marring dark puddles,
daisies waxing white in spring,
the coming of dawn through sheaves of midnight blue.
Now, I am afraid.
I sit nights, sore hand mapping all the hurt with tapping keys.
I mourn the years I missed, curled around my bitter substitutes for love.
But do not cry for me. I am a self-fulfilling prophecy, a mournful wind through bare branches as they lie untended.
I, the unending story,
the thread thrust forth with no definite end
am a piece of writing that could flutter or fail.