Storm of the Lost Sentry

In the stratosphere of future
words,
I hope
the clouds are heard,

little inflections always
reserved for
conversations with my
sun.

Against warm fronts of
my darkest fears,
I want
to be
the cold snap,

January
gems over whatever
doorstep you brave,

a sabbatical from
scorched
earth daze
even shade
cannot deflect.

And though your cheeks redden
at the
subzero
resentment you’re still
the warmest person I’ve

ever
met,

only
covered
in snow.

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3 thoughts on “Storm of the Lost Sentry

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