When the Earth folds into itself,
I breathe out smoke from my lungs.
Like white fog trapped outside,
Weary and still beneath my gaze.
Trembling between my fingertips,
The rolling hills of the wind are frigid.
My lips are tainted just as my soul,
Wired limbs brushing against red skin.
I hold steady in mid-winter,
And the air is crisp and burning
Like my tea in the morning light.
Warmth spreads like a wildfire and
Strikes a match upon my brittle tongue.
The flame is akin to a smoldering candle in the
Silent churning night, flickering out of sight.