Encased and Alkali

If we were to pretend that
the sky is nothing but
heavy cream – whipped fiercely
by the hand of some finicky god,
it might help. Help destroy
the feeling of skin so ashen
not even our blood knows red.
The pigment of our eyes—
faded gradient with every
upward glance, making color
difficult to remember.

We close eyelids and force our
diminishing senses to conjure
a soft pink spring; a sizzling
summer. Lime-green buds
breaking way through the
arms of branches; a beautiful
welcomed blistering. But all
we see is a thick layer
of dark ice so sinister, it nearly
tells you it has a name:
Adversary, Dastard, Furies.

A vein not even salt can open.

 

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