Persephone's Gloves
Trapped in the casual
massacre of a deep rest,
cold footprints in the snow follow
her wherever she goes
a midnight fog taps the thin
glass of her prism,
she waves,
it winks
a mystery exit and she
promises to write
if it keeps whispering
the litany of cruel secrets;
when the fog that is not fog
kisses her, she smiles and
tries not to
cry too loud.
poem by B. Sven Telander
Added by Poetry Lover
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