I pick them so fragile
Like glass skeletons
And I stare through them
At the empty reflection of me
A tiny burning ember of
A life that was once complete
And realistic in its madness
But now the wind is soiled
They scatter away
Like dying women and
Unfound dreams
Locked in a prison of my own hatred
The cold blood-snow descends
Reflections gnaw quietly
On self-serving fingers
And now the only role
Yet to be played
Is myself