It's the ice trapping flowers in a winter grave,
petals cracking like old skin in the sun
roots growing down your throat as you stomach the cold
but nothing can make you truly warm again
(the scratchy motel sheets will work for now)
but until lily seeds sprout on your bones with
resurrected innocence,
you're just another worm too far deep in the dirt

It's a connect-the-dot game with the bruises on your arm
trailing down to your legs like you're a dog's tail,
cowering and afraid before the master

It's hide-and-seek under the black lights in the back room
only you are invisible to all,
it's hard for a black hole to spit out light,
unless you take a glow stick and swallow it whole
(then maybe we'll see your heart)

It's bokeh in a forgotten picture,
fleeting and pretty like a branded butterfly
present in sight but not in the physical,
and after all,
you'd know the physical
it's the black of sins on your temples
and the fingerprints over your pulse
just to make sure your overplayed organ
has enough keys to unlock your clotted, frozen emotions

.

.

.


.

.

.

A/N: It's life.

This is one of my poems from Allpoetry, where I write as Viking.