Every Winter is a Time Machine

And I ran out into the field,
some field I found on my way to grief.
I stood on the edge of that field,
the woods at my back,
and the cold air blew snowflakes in circles around the numb
head on my shoulders.

And I threw off my winter clothes;
my pants and my coat.
I pulled the shirt off my back and
stood in the cold,
stood in nothing but long johns, and boots.

I spread my arms wide,
not in strength like the eagle.
Not in peace like the dove-
but in utter surrender, every bond broken
 between my heart and humanity,
and the strings of my little heart
wavered and fluttered in the frigid wind.

I hoped that there was no repair,
but I knew I was lying, my hope
was not thus.

A trust was that day broken.
An innocence was stolen.

All loyalty was naked, shown
for what it really was-misguided,
selfish, empty, then self-less songs.
A dirge was danced by broken pawns,
and lawns were drenched in blood.
A flood of tears washed alters bronze,
and throngs of spirits crushed
beneath the weight of wasted years
appeared to mourn the loss of life,
or what we thought life was,
and when I found my fingertips
and core had froze
I fell, and became like them.