(no subject)

The sky is white.

The sun is Balor's eye
burning what it looks upon.
The ground is hard
baked into brick
sharp and jagged
it cuts and burns.

There is no comfort here.

The sky is white.

Cold, egg-white cloud
even and blank and empty
The ground is hard
frozen to ice
sharp and jagged
it cuts and burns.

There is no comfort here.

In summer and winter is the year.
I still wait for spring.