The words had started to fail me.
There was always an ‘if'―
before every war of hunger.

The candlewick has burned
out. I am collecting the―
wax from the eyes.

Wrapped agony, now lifts
the dead bird from the
rose bushes.

The frosted god
will melt to bare a
black stone.

I am not luck
I am not the future.
You know where this path leads into?