Shells of Winter
She feels to be broken, cast out and unkempt
to be left unwoken cocoon-like and bent
The egg shell of winter in powdered dust air
like fingers, like tendrils of wilt in her hair
Honesty in the room, blue and stiff beaten
like egg whites of snow crystallizing horizons
Just bury her too early sundown confessions
for she's lost in the shells of her pastime possessions
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2005
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