Spray the wind did,
her bite thrashing a cheek
and icy hook
tears thru unblocked raw
“I’ll turn back.”, I say
Pointing from directions explored
“Where warmth once was, waits…”
“You see, the funny thing:
the mind a blockade makes.”
Possibilities endless were, now deflated seem
“Perhaps it was a ghost I saw,”
my mind it said to me.
“Alas tis true,”
a ghost of fated future, hope
were I not a mute
aghast, scarred, scared, affright’d
it to mention
And so the seasoned pattern endless turns
in ornamental form
and thin spread spirit bears the brunted thought
displayed in selfish morn.