Dead But Beautiful

My heart, early like
the winter pine collects
new snow, rebounds morning
light into the mouths
of strange, misshapen hills,
becomes a blue, cool glow
growing towards the wood.
In this place, the wound
is darkness, first the cold
then numbing sadness. The origon
of ice, clear conscience freezes
water, enslaves the living cell,
my heart, dead but beautiful.

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