My heart

a block of sculptured ice

buried deep behind

steel ribs

hung with icicles

offering dagger sharp protection

An arctic palace

of empty chambers

where glacial winds

flash freeze unwanted feelings

blow them deep into dungeons

blood is crystallized

in frozen nitrogen veins

heartbeat slowed

like a wound down pocket watch

My dreams haunted nightly

by my dead

again and again

they appear

bright cheeked

vibrant

unaware. . .

or perhaps unconcerned. . .

by their fates

They murmur

that I am the ghost here

rendered translucent

thin

insubstantial

from years of suppressed grief

They whisper in my ear

to remove the splinter

from my eye

that blinds me

to myself

these truths

it is time

they say

to examine the shape

the sharpness

of my grief. . .

that spring thaw

is long, long overdue

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Christine Ray writes for Brave and Reckless and is a writer and…