She thought the winter would
keep her warm, that the biting
and bitching wind would be but
hushed kisses on her neck,
and the idiosyncratic flakes of
frost would be her shroud.
Her eyes spattered the bleak
panorama with green and gold
reflections of autumn nights on
tempestuous swells and breakers,
becoming the stars hovering above
crookedly bleeding chest organs.
Soft lavender oblivion has kept her
artfully sedated beneath the
steely clouds of Yuletide. Held
underwater, she sees nothing but
nothing, yet her tongue speaks
of the sapphire sun on the horizon.
C. Brown 
Reblogged this on breathing the words.