Winter has dusted the soul with ash,

and chilled the distant dreams of long ago.

My silhouette, traced thick in chalk -above it,

leaning in, you came to know.

At dead of night I'll call in vain -

you, as before, won't hear my cry.

I'll leave again for snowy lanes

where heavy crust makes the rooftops sigh.

Where have the former friends all gone?

Who'll come to this quiet wake?

The blizzard stitches like a mad seamstress -

February swings the branches for old times' sake.

February blows deep under my coat,

sweeping the timid tracks of being young.

What never came to be - I don't regret.

There's more than enough winter emptiness in my lung.

February will draw a line in the snow -

a single shot will kill the poet.

The warm revolver buried deep below,

and the song went quiet - though not finished, no.

A streetlamp swings, throwing sharp shadows -

no one else remains at the place of death.

Only he lies on an abandoned stage.

Behind the curtain, the winter light slowly departs.  

Introspection I & II

Part One 20XX.

Sometime in winter.Depression.

Writing.December 17, evening.

Near the park.She walked past.

Another one. Suburb.

Another lonely New Year.

January 6, frost.—19°C, no one.

Morning, Tuesday.Nothing in sight.

January 13. What’s wrong.

January 14. Still here.

Afternoon, outskirts.Evening, winter.

Alcohol.Severe frost.

Hopeless.Blizzard,

Wednesday.Fever.

Anya K.Search. Breakthrough.

January 20. The ice has broken.

January 25. Second date.

February 1. Waiting.Valentine’s Day.

Flowers. Exactly at six.She doesn’t answer.

February 22, end of winter.

Empty platform.No reply. Again.What did I do wrong?

Friday, surveillance.Snow. No results.

Saturday. Full stop.

Much later. Spring.Repentance.

After midnight.Knock on the door?

Empty.

Silence.

End of entries.

Part Two 20XX.

Winter.Foreign city.

December 17. Park.A strange silhouette.

Suburb. Train.What awaits in the new year?

January 6. Frost.Someone following me?

Morning. Tuesday.Sleepy city.

January 13. Anxiety.

January 14. Him again.Afternoon. Outskirts.

Evening. Snow. Fear.Through the glass.

Lonely.Blizzard.

Wednesday.A note. What to do?Trying to understand.

January 20. Took a risk.

January 25. Second date.A strange look.

February 1. Doubts.Valentine’s Day.Flowers. Exactly at six.

Cold gleam in his eyes.

February 22. Platform.Escape. A one-way ticket.

Not answering. Deleted.

Friday. Another life.Snow covering the tracks.

Saturday. Freedom?

Much later. Spring.

Trying to forget.

After midnight.Knock on the door?Imagined it.

Not that I would have opened.

Empty.

Silence.

End of entries.

Snowstorm

The snow won't stop until the dawn —

February cranks its barrel organ.

My hollow place is white, snow-

white,and heaven spills a grain of sorrow.

The frost is no enemy —

a guard,a lock that clicks on time's command.

He cinched the rivers in his coldhard crust.

Each breath falls on demand.

All frozen stiff.

No light, no glass,no human footsteps in the snow —

nothing but whiteness, white on white,and snowflakes flying,

row on row.No road ahead.

The house is cold,as if I heard the final prayer.

Everything I could forgive — I did.

Everything I could complete — I left it there.

Why did I live? What did I spend?

Myself — in letters, every dime?

I lost too much along the way

to understand what love is now.

What love is mine.I am alone.

The snowfall stainsthe air —

like someone tearing paper white.

And only weariness goes ontrudging with me

through the ravine's dry light.