Crystallized clouds
linger in the rings of Saturn
that lie in your eyes.
Winter’s grasp
chokes you
and steals the last crepuscule of oxygen
you held,
as it slipped through the crevices of your hands.
Two wanderers-
one,
a Fabricator
another,
a lost Soul.
What better to have one steal the darkness
from the other’s eyes?

The Lost Soul:
has freckles under her eyes
like embers.
She first found herself in the hours after dark
where her crimson poetry
ground the image
she’d been burrowing for so long-
the comfort
intertwined
in these words seemingly devoid of meaning.
She wonders
and cries
a river of salt
that stings are her open wounds.