this winter frost upon my frame.
i breathe. i spit. i curse the name
from what, from where, from whence it came
an arrow shot without thought or aim.
but pain, how pain, i’ve grown to earn,
and from which never, to never learn,
and to always scream when it least burns
that nothing is heard when the blade turns.
i stare and stagger, a walking tree,
so many arrows as thorns in me,
and from all sides they’re continually,
burrowing deep eternally.