Obsessed with winter imagery
a feverish hand scribbles shaky characters
-- characters which, multiplying, create characters
full of angst and attitude
that march the boardwalks under the moon
trying to shake off their
subterranean blues.

Possessed by self-righteous thirst
they mourn poetics, metamorphosize
and stagnate -- themselves as shaky
as their cursive foundations. They greive
for intellectualism, in an alcove
safe from the arctic fray:
solidarity breathed into each small cynicism,
connected, but never to meet
under the light of day.

Oppressed by their own limitations, they wither.
Breakers splash against their cave,
December steals away with their salvation.
They credit the cruel irony of being
trapped by their own fragility.
A tiny, 35-line universe whites out, crumples,
cast in confetti over the shore's cold sand.
And under the moon, a tragic voice whispers:

"You are what I blame, for all my life
Repressed by your coal-smeared, heartless hand."