Pour my future in the bottle

to replace its wine that now runs as blood.

I was told flowers would sprout,

but the colors never came

from the brown of mud.

Oblivious Springs sauntered by joyless years,

oblivion courtesy of bittersweet beers.

For the strength to raise one heavy chin,

I spent instead raising ten bottles of gin.

My beautiful flowers, my promised colors never came,

so I sleep or wait and play a drinking game.

How blurry and funny can I paint the air

before my condemned dream no longer cares

The lost boy

found the fountain of

winter mornings.

He tasted then drank until quenched

but found that satiety

was false.

The lost boy found his need:

Winter mornings,

deep and white,

forever trembling between her lashes.

Well, the blizzard hums,

have you ever been inspired?

has misery every felt you?

have you ever laughed?

Yes, the blizzard hums,

that ache in your breast is a souvenir, a postcard of proof

from love itself

dated from your birth, corners stamped with a mother’s kisses,

dated from your favorite class, edges singed with the first flickering of passion,

dated from your multiple memories, surfaces marked with strangers’ generosity.

Yes, the blizzard hums,

look out upon my snow and appreciate your sight–a forgotten miracle,

look out upon my gusts and feel loving arms melting over you recalled at will–memories,

look out upon my frigidity and feel it in you–alive and warm.

A time to appreciate the forgotten blessings of being alive. Life is too short to question love. I must remember to embrace it in each flurry and blizzard.