And always.

Hanging by a thread…
clawing up
from the edge
of the abyss.

Full moon rise
hints at warm
gets high
and crumbles like packed snow.

Upstairs there is frost
blooming in flowers
that catch its light
splintered and frozen.

And the barren shadows
and we must wait,
or trick ourselves
back into something like hope.

And you are
a kind man —

a nudge
toward solid ground.

But the clever,
always pushing
against the barriers,
finds his way through —
the thief
twists the wires.

So bereft
of all but instinct,
we feed them,
we shelter and clothe them,
we sing them to sleep.
And until the time turns,
this will have to do.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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