Last Breath

Standard

my hands are frozen
on a pitch tar birch tree
the angled snow glass
is taking a look at me.

from up there
the sun nestles down.
from down here
the landscape daubs in shades of green,
the air rings like glockenspiel feathers,
i hear whispers of my aunt saying grace
and melodies that fade from me;
but all i see is the road.

my hands wanted to die lonely
though they needed to be held
rubbed together,
till the pink shown through like
burning coals.

i stretched out my hand
to the perimeter
close enough to see the warning sign
that said
dead end,
and even though my hands never knew
i sure did, and i walked through.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

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