Arouse Resurrection

how can wind sound like broken glass?

I don't know how it manages the howling pain.

when each word, each sigh is like a slicing
    

feather and your ice can only remain solid as

remains of snowing summers.


But until then, my friend,

until then,

I'm speaking of your high tide winters,
     

and how they swept across the land with a heat so intense

that the water jumped in shock,
    

while lunar moons and starlit sky's icicle dewdrops

vanished in the frost, beneath a thousand
     

marching seasons.

when, Queen, when?
    

are we allowed to speak languages untold?

starting out with skies dripping in gold,
    

precious as Egyptian River Nile, death dipped papyrus

secret centuries yielded the beauty of unknown.


how does wind sound like broken glass?
    

is it because seasons never last?

each tinkling, gregarious seam,
    

thinking spinal chords unorganized

wonders how, my friend,
    

how

snowflakes turn to rain, when only outside,
   

is there a crying breeze, wishing?

for necklaces of pearly leaves cannot satisfy our hunger
    

that is for an estranged grapevine,

empty of coiling seasnake of poisonous wine
     

meant to wrap around our necks

_{and coax us into drowning.}