Crisp, clear, cool.
As if one’s breathe were their first.
Floating crystals of morning frost, burning bright in sun lit skies.
Raw, edged, a blade in the darkness of a shadow. I am shaded by a thought.
How fluorescent is the dawn?
In a dream my eyes awoke, starved for sensation,
pupils dilated, take in, drink in.
Oh this fall morning, for I am mourning.
Lost again is the Autumn, flora struck by Ra’s flame,
But now as a knife in the dark, winter plants its poison.
Lost, is the Autumn, again I wait for spring.
-M.E. Inkowl
The Ink Owl 