February has passed, your cold shoulder long
laid to rest, a repetition, a recitation of all that dies in me.
Yet I fail to move from frozen gravesite of my past. Thick with
foggy reasons, senseless, I weep for the long-dead in my life
without hope of resurrection, without some way
out of overgrown forest of dying trees
I have made my home.

     Perhaps I felt I deserved it, reinforcement
of your deafening silence.

Reality sucks the life from me. Creeping thoughts
grow like poison ivy in my brain. Rash ambiguity. Poetry
is beyond the realm of possibility. Vision blurred, I amble about
without love's grounding, long denied to me, looking for something
I might have lost, only vaguely aware of what it might be.

     Beyond reason and having shed long season of insanity,
I trudge through endless winters nonetheless.

In dreams, I boldly knock on ten thousand doors
hoping someone will answer. I awake to distant screams
that may well be my own. Mismatched words spill onto the page,
but I have no desire to solve the puzzle. Neither do I care
to rearrange my scrambled egg confusion. It means nothing.

     Forever losing myself, I pass through days long and grey,
lengthening shadow of doubt. 

Sleep or awake, screaming aloud or without sound, every
tick tock tick brings me another tock closer to something. I will
only know what when I knock and a door is opened and I am
welcomed home to something I have never known. I have forgotten
what that is. My eyes are heavy now, though I know sleep
will elude me until I remember spring.

     Memory of flowering hope, I know, ends in bloody massacre.
But I must live long engouth to find a moment;s reprieve
in your eyes, breathe deep and, for a season, feel
again a beginning, at last alive.