The old March snow,
It turns to drizzle
The black and white,
They blow their whistle
A second wind,
Yet uncountable
Here comes the flood of tears.
The frame, I hold
In a digital mold
The weight, I lift
My grip begins to slip
I sit in dread
I want my world to end
Is that the flood I hear?
It’s a museum of microtears,
A mausoleum of my fears.
What once was real is laid to rest
To appear ideal, I am obsessed
Warm mercury reads on the gauge
But my own is in retrograde
The iceberg has melted, its vapor: haze
But the starboard breaks in April’s daze
The spring is supposed to heal
Until winter comes to steal
Numb to my tranquility,
Yet blessed with immunity.
To spring’s infectious disease:
Please take me to my knees
For the next time I feel alive
Will be right before I die.
Copyright Kristian Zenz
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