A/N: It's too short, slightly incoherent and I'm not sure if I like it, but considering I've spent the last year in a poetry slump, it's progress. Critique would be appreciated.

Extending an icy arm,

the wind takes me (the stars are calling me home and)

I ascend; drift above the world

and the city, in all it's coldsteeldecadence

is asleep, curled in on

itself in a spiral-shell of

transience, changing (caterpillarcocoonbutterfly)

-- born from the ashes lying

in the grave of yesterday's gold; the wind an elegy,

singing softly its own poetry as it carries

me from paradise (if this is paradise

you said, then where is God?)

and I fight cascading flecks of ice

chipped littlebylittle from the pregnant moon

(waiting to be born, I told you,

and your laughter woke the world)