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Friday, January 4, 2013

Snow Blind




Her breath moves without sound
upon my restless death

ridicules the tainted tirade
of dim nights flooded by
depleted star-glimmer
over impatient ivory surf

and pretends light makes
a difference to me.

I am more alive behind
closed lids, chastised -
pressing soul and chalice
to my unheard heart

than if rekindled by her
scavenger's low tide
that mocks my empty womb.





Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved
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