Lullaby of Lead Pencils

Thus it came time to build something
new from the old,
light an
inferno on our
tinder of bones.

We crafted
Christmas amidst
forty below, but I must note winter
poems are more
polemical than their
carolling counterparts;
a lullaby for lead
pencils and drunken
hearts.

For the feral,
in disrepair, wearing
summer’s mascara after it
runs like a wild river.

Sister, we’ve
all been
there.

When it came time
to make juice of the lemons,
it was ruphanol
racing
bitterness to the palette,

a dalliance of inconsistent
shapes and textures,
liquid jesters
withholding taste.

This carol quakes
between my ears like
Amaretto,
a song of the wastes where
joy should
be a city,
but there’s nothing
pretty though;

just the winds of
winter howling inside
my head for
miles
all
around.

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