Photo By Robert & Shana ParkeHarrison

Photo by Robert & Shana ParkeHarrison

I'm on the scent of hope, bloodhound blood drips vibrant into the snow

Roll me one to ease my joints, winter slumber until I'm up again to feed the dogs

Days like these, cold and shut in, I'm faced with nothing but my stomach and mirror, dashing back and fourth trying to get a grip on the carpet

The place heats up a decent amount after the oven turns on, metal burning robot first to mother during this storm

It's drafty and a blizzard. I pay close attention to the melody of the walls. They sing by the force of the wind and know nothing but to shudder

This weather brings something feverish over me, and like I said, I'm trying to placate it's sickness without getting caught in the static of my electric brain, watts on wattage

Pen in my grasp, I write.

'Don't quiver at its gain on you, it's mere instincts. Bare bones and canine teeth. You were forced to bite and now your jaw is locked. You practice by almost eating your own hands.'

Far too long I've let myself bleed dry for greedy fingers and thirsty tongues

I've bled myself into nothing but a puddle, and all they were able to say was

'What a pretty color'

I wake up and feed the dogs

Palm to my forehead, must be coming down with something