Thursday, August 22, 2013

my glacier.

entire landscapes inside of me
petrol veins
nitrates and concussive memories of loves lost
this is a different type of war, a different type of apocalypse
there is no smell of gunpowder,
just perfume residue and bleach

I'm not sure anymore of anything anywhere
especially you
my glacier
glasshouse
guillotinewife
the initials were pressed into the metal,
but they corrode in the blankets of ice

I am the soldier in the field, but I do not fight
I lay down my weapons and raise my arms in acceptance
close my eyes
smirk and nod

this is what was meant for us all along