cold white hands claw their way through the earth reaching up hopelessly
silver roads turn to white ash into the distance where the earth swallows itself whole
the days are solemn and honest and empty and we are underground with the rabbits
hibernating with the thought of a dead deer on the side of a frosty mountain road
no one sees anything, this is one of the many faces of peace and this is the church of death
this is the small sound of an ice age and the path we follow each year when our luck runs out
the canyons are tossed in white and the air is tiny daggers that pierce the pale skin to the bone
and the bone is the same bone that is exposed meatless on the face of the earth where there is no sun
and the ice is the mirror buried beneath the powdered ground where we cannot see ourselves
and does anything matter when everyone is frozen alive and love is a distant season
as the fortunate are lost within the summer they’ve harvested and hoard within their thighs
while the rest of us are anorexia and devastated ghost town wind blowing chiming crackle
and i am left with nothing, abandoned by the leaves that once clinged to me

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “THE KING OF HIS LAWN”