It is not a season

That brings this to me

Cold blistering to rise against

From a cutting shore, years passed

The wounds overcome the senses

Bleeding into the ice of this

My present + in the moment + still +

Screaming from the shudder of dusk

It is not a season

That unfolds its wings

Like an intemperate angel

But a thunderous shadow casting a frost

…..It crystalizes on his three-day shadow

Turning fluid asphyxiate blue

With memories raked against her flesh

Peeling what remains of him from her

It has never been a season

That tore a child to pieces

It was as if you, little by little,

Into what was left, you fed and preyed on her.

Upon this spirit and emetic reflex

Left me seconds to ‘scape your breath.

I saved her and the lowest

What a broken child tried to heal bits and pieces of this.