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Walk the NightWalk the Night by ~FrostedHarbor
The frost-bitten air of a windless night
Acts as my refuge from your song
That sings to my forgotten soul,
Forgotten by all except by you.
On this ashen path, I walk the night.
The cold, I hope, shall cure this blight
As it has encased my soul so long
Too long since I have been whole,
Whole to you, who I walk from and to.
In this fashion, I walk the night.
The icy chill that blinds my sight
Is that which I, for now, belong
Far gone from your love's sweet toll,
A toll where no more fees are due.
From this passion, I walk the night.
For the breeze of autumn began my plight
Whispering to me all I have done wrong
Rending my heart with this tragic stroll,
A stroll that tells the story true.
From these actions, I walk the night.
Perhaps the spring leaves might set me right
And I may find a worthy way back to your song
That sings the end to my sorry woe
The woe that may bring me back anew.
For you, I shall no longer walk the night.
Timeline MarkerTimeline Marker by ~FrostedHarbor
Plumb the slick interior of sweaty ringlets,
boa-constricted around that quivering fourth finger.
Let the death rattle seep in so absolute that
waking moments are perverted by cycles of dreams
stuck in the unconscious haunting.
Pluck the biting glass from denim blue,
shouldering the responsibility of shatters
while a lifted head responds to no stimulus.
Note the scramble to trace back and imprint
beyond doubt the specific timbre of vocal chords.
Procure from vaulted border some wild insight,
definite in its perception of sealed providence.
Sleep with the transition between fading and permanent,
where form and blinking eyelashes confer their weight
to palls and the solitude of a single against a double headboard.
Pinch out of reality a designation for this flash,
grasping at no less than a timeline marker
beset by vain elsewhere moments in the sky.
Seek the hand and lift it to the rigid part of your chest,
pretending it moved of its own forgiving volition.
Steppenwolf TidesSteppenwolf Tides by ~FrostedHarbor
Around here, the ghosts give compliments freely, and I don't shy away. I wait for the fun house of Anna's mind to right itself, which comes after she intentionally shatters a pot of coffee on the kitchen tiles. She sits on the floor with a handkerchief on her head. I tell her the lock on the bathroom door is broken. The nest outside hasn't chirped in two days, and I think the Seattle wind got the best of it. Nostalgia keeps me, but the nature of my days with her turns faded moments slowly bitter.
Four nights after then, she says she could cry if I gave her something for the pain. I only hear her a little. Anna wanted to be a dancer. Leaning in arabesque, she was as close to perfect as I'd ever want to have. When she opens her closet, I only see her old, long-unused pink slippers.
I find myself tracing the origins of my family tree in a book left to me by my grandmother. I follow the ink branches with my fingers and stare at the space between my cousins and me. These lines will keep str