Wander from room to frozen room

Weaving a tapestry of discontent

Leaving its spoiled scent in your colorless wake

Trailing like soured milk with your over-long robes

Hues of purple misconstrued.

A sour bouquet of screams

Broken fingers and lidless eyes

Reaping frost-a winter palace

Reflecting off ice or glass, so contorted

Raping every beauty in my pale sight

Would that it were summer

Would that I could breathe