The Disaster is an Artist

The disaster is an artist, drawing me in ragged lines of chalk,

Rolling me up into a hollow and painting me a smile.

 

There has been a fall: the winter sky has seen my mind.

It has turned my head inside out, and covered the world in fresh, white snow.

My palette adulterate has tasted sparkling, jagged snowflakes.

I know what corrosion that little dog named Ego went chasing, night after frosty night.

Now it is my own weather too; instant, precipitating memories of the pretty damage it can do.

Tiny silver stars shingle my skin, like the dead black weights of a diver’s belt.

And the air is my sea, and I drown in it.

 

The disaster is an artist, drawing me in ragged lines of chalk,

Rolling me up into a hollow and painting me a smile.

 

I mean to teach my soul the seasons, to pick the first sharp green blade of grass

As it is reborn, and wear it around my neck for all time, knowing that I waited.

A perished intent that leaves me in the dreadful bleak, without coordinates.

I run with outstretched happy arms, into a white, winter wonderland,

To the beautiful creation dance of snow angles.

My powerful white friends that leave me frozen and blue.

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