Vicious my attempts

To birth words from my fingertips

As if to mold clay from the ashes;

An exhale never deemed 

So tiresome

An inhale, so void

My hands, so barren 

With the promise of 

Expression;

Winter sweeps my bedroom floors

With a light feather,

Giggling at my feet, 

As if to silently bring despair 
And make a home to sit,

The winds rock me as I sleep

I dream of a house built from sorrow;

Etched into the granite of a childhood,

An echo of the past stained on a coffee mug

Copper is the song of the memory

That leaches onto me like a child

To a breast;

Like amber sap on a tree;

I tarnish the thought of you

With every passing week

Downing unforgiving spirits 

To erase the album of your smile

Flickering picture through picture

They all blend into one;

Only to be repainted with the light

Of the morning sun

Time is an unforgiving healer

My hands, they tremble 

Under such weight