we race around the frozen pond of our dreams,
looking for a tree to grab before we slip and fa,ll,
but, as we do, we slip anyway, and while it seems
a little premature, it is a necessary circumstance;
bundled up for the cold, we sit inside a humid
isolation sphere of doubt, sweating with each idea
as if it were a labor breathing, until an illuminating
sun causes ice to fall from the tree, giving us pause;
within moments within moments, a doe appears,
granting us a view of her blood stained body
before disappearing back into that part of the mind
where we were to have burned, not bury all
those memories we wasted on our foolish youth.
9Oct14
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