Melted Dreams

I’m pale,

white as snow-

cold as your eyes. 

Ancient,

eroding,

creaking like a rocking chair,

or an old swing.

The mangled materials that make us are not defined by the components,

they are not defined by the ideas or the movements.

They are what they are,

pieces to create a greater whole.

Rain,

It fills my soul,

it knows my words.

The momentary substance of memorial dreams.

The changing mirror of living things.

There’s a blackbird outside my window, 

but he doesn't sing. 

His golden eyes glow like horizons,  

pupils like sinking ships. 

You sit 

in the corner of my room,  

stretched thin across canvas, 

and frozen 

in your forgotten poise.