ice at my windows

There is a grandeur to melancholy,
a sacredness, a holiness that hangs
in the air and frosts the lungs.

There is a beauty to the throat
that clenches the sobs and refuses
to let them go free.

There is something reverent
in the way the cold ebbs and flows,
the way it occupies me like a haunt.

There is reassurance in the stillness
so severe that all I can hear
is the gasp and release of my breath.

The End

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