Ars Poetica

I wake to Dark peaks against a rising sea of white.

I look onto this new world of ice Searching for any trace Of color.

But all I see Are a few marks In the landscape.

Marks? Like the red dot Left by the blade On my forehead.

Marks? Like my hasty pencil Sullying paper.

Marks? Like the remains of a day When I smash them against Thought and Image –

When my breath becomes fire And I spew warmth or wrath Until snow becomes air.

Underneath – I find obsidian sand To meld with those bloodied remains.

Turn them into a statue! Of glass – Glass born of sand – Sand born of dark peaks eroding – Under the weight of days –

My heart exposed but covered by translucent glass, a few words, maybe even poetry.