05-01-2017, 02:37 PM
October Prognosis
I had until December. Fitting
years in days numbering less than
50 proved possible. 50
days of snowing in the mountains,
where snowflakes multiply before
the eyes, buries trees like people who
stand upright in their graves. Mounds drift
15 to 30 feet like steeple
peaks caressed by wind, finger
of Death. What lies beneath forgets
the sky like I’ve forgotten. Thoughts
before my eyes had multiplied.
Independently light, they’re
heavy enmass, crystallized moments
of life distilled from my mind; they
tumbled in eddies, settled in.
Beneath a blank expanse of what
had been my being is dead
and buried.
I had until December. Fitting
years in days numbering less than
50 proved possible. 50
days of snowing in the mountains,
where snowflakes multiply before
the eyes, buries trees like people who
stand upright in their graves. Mounds drift
15 to 30 feet like steeple
peaks caressed by wind, finger
of Death. What lies beneath forgets
the sky like I’ve forgotten. Thoughts
before my eyes had multiplied.
Independently light, they’re
heavy enmass, crystallized moments
of life distilled from my mind; they
tumbled in eddies, settled in.
Beneath a blank expanse of what
had been my being is dead
and buried.