Through the black door, my heart of darkness.
Miles reflected, my parabolic trajectory.
A thousand icy suns, the transients penance.
Rusty barbed wire caresses and hypothermic dreams.
Alone. Finding the blurred edge.
Open. Closed. Open. Steps in fresh snow.
Upward, outward. Drawn. Pulled.
My opening, my slowing. You are my welcome ellipse.
Locus of content.
Words/Images ©B. Barthelemy 1-4-13
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