Shrubs as handholds,
Toes dug into frostbitten earth,
Yet they have no roots--
Until you cannot breathe.
Their nooses wrapped around your wrists,
Puppeteer placements of
Fire-tipped smoke rings,
Pressed to flesh to
Mark this moment in your
(Yet they're wholly comprised of scar tissue.)
When you might hide behind threads,
Have no existence in your only residence,
What better way to light the path than
Searing candlelight tattooed on your shoulders.
(The kind that never weighs you down.)