Spring: Scribbles

I had something
for the headaches,
but lost my way:
Empty house
caverns suck at
the edges of
my frame-worked
molecules,
in dim light from
flickering candles,
set neatly on wood
counters during black-
out struggles
in Winter’s chest.
Announcing, fear at the
door frames, ticking
seconds with sweat beads
and palpitations. Foolish boy,
you are no man.

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