my fingers numb
of fridged breeze
my lips tremble
from cold
the wind whistles
me a lullaby
and my tired eyes
droop low
i know my face
is pale as snow
with pruned
drooping skin
pale white billows
of my hair
whip my fleshy skin
the sun
must have
a broken ankle
for he limps
low across the sky
the trees
are bony skeletons
each has lived
a thousand deaths
brittle, wispy
lengths of grass
fall flat onto the ground
the pigment
of the once blue sky
has long since
gone away
replaced by a
sagging, discolored
layer
stretched loosely
across the sky
the air is thick
with suffocating
mist
i blend right in
just another
faded part
of the landscape
of the lumpy
earth beneath
my feet
of the thick
blinding mist
of the dead trees
the broken sun
the crumpled grass
of the whistling wind
of the spineless,
scrawled, clumsy
lines of this world
and of myself
my now discolored
fingertips
my tired, drooping
eyes
and finally
in this
matted down, pale
almost dead,
chanceless world
I become myself
my hopeless self