October Illness

Stuck in the light of a red paper box
Made of terrors and errors and sharp shattered glass,
Locked in dingy distress behind old crystal locks
While a mobile of keys shimmers; brightest of brass.
Thickest of air like a soup, like a steam.
Thickest, and quickest, this Autumnal dream.
Coldest of skies – all so perfectly grey.
Coldest, and oldest, this dark midnight day.

Whispering waters all icy and black
Melt the paper to ashes to pulp peppered pain,
Leaves a transparent shell where the mirrors melt back
And the storm rages on between rightness and rain.
Sweetest of sleep in my box, in my room.
Sweetest, and neatest, this deep purple doom.
Newest of hurt – diamond smiles went away.
Newest, and blue-est, my white wheezing day.

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