The Literary Phoenix

Funny, the damage a silly little book can do. Especially in the hands of a silly little girl.

I remember the taste of winter.
Fresh cut steel and the heartache of the world
bleeding fresh upon a whitewashed sidewalk
on in front of the house
where I grew up.

The snow fell like dancers
upon a silver stage,
their tiny feet tied up
in silken shoes, lips frosted
blue.

Windows frosted over, etched
with the blade of a knife
harsh, rough, a madman’s sketch –
it burned my fingers
with its chilling breath.

I remember the way she cried,
so howled in the alleyway
rivers stopped to let her pass
and her tears clung in my hear
while I grew numb…

inside
and
out.

I remember winter in the streets
of the city where I lived.
I remember the corpses buried
beneath the piles
of ash and snow.

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