A Sudden Taste Of Blood On The Lip

At the heart of a cold, bright hope dwells a sorrow from the past and the now: you stretch past a vision of a past that cannot be assuaged.

And the sorrow and hope survive a cemetery of all our past selves: each persona we concocted to be in the world, each that perished from luck, naivete, or merely a cruel god…

For there can be no tomorrow without yesterday’s need; there can be no desire without the sense of loss that fills the soul with a falling apprehension.

In our souls, Winter sunlight glints across a running stream of time; amidst the gorgeous snow, we see all of nature’s ruin, her naked skeleton math of branches.

Then, like a sudden taste of blood on the lip—Spring wells up, cold, bright, hopeful…

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