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Terminal Burrowing

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These lilac bones
Smell like winter and coal
And tremble beneath my transparent soul
While glassy smoke curls from the coldest throat.
This wasteland has no ears to hear my creeds or capture my slowing breath,
Only frostbitten fingers that feel the crimson-eyed ache
Everlastingly interlaced with the starry pattern of my disintegrating footprints.

Still waiting.
Still waiting.
My tongue begins to bleed
And the cerulean syrup freezes on my lips in splintered words
Like the fractured notes of a single wolf’s moan.
The ice slogs through my inflamed veins from my toes to my eyelashes,
So don’t bother with blankets or surgery strings of jumbled letters.
I won’t come back.
I won’t
I



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