The past grows bony fingers
that stretch and cast an ice shadow
lingering on my throat.
The creeping chill was seeded seasons ago
in my rush through frosted daffodils,
swaying defiant and brush-stroked in vibrancy.
Impatience fluttered its winking white wings,
enticed me further in, where every fleeting choice
took root in blood rich soil, under twisted branches.
The illusion of warmth, a false sun has set
in shades of regret behind hollow hills
crowned in far-flung rays of grey that dimmed and died.
They rose from black fields, wrinkled like years
worn on the face of the Old Man.
I gaze in their direction, imagining the beyond.
The hills lie in darkness,
they lie to me,
[Dedicated to a friend, dear to Asomatous and living in the world beyond.]
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