Snowed In

A smokey cave of gratitude,
a noose of obligation.
Stairs and stares,
this is my winter.

My rusty pen struggling
under months of apathy
but I cannot be condemned,
being newly resurrected.

Hints and insinuations
heavy the air
between perceptions and personalities.
Eggshells are walked upon,
tongues are bitten,
and the ownness lands in my lap
and purrs in the shape of a cat.

I've never been so free and stuck.
I cannot win and cannot fail,
mercifully mired.

To Thine

Your ravenous hunger
for my candidly sensual folly
entertains us both
and fuels suspicion and insecurity
that cuts through the vapor of innocence
like sulfer through new snow.

If it were any more than fantasy,
the violation of the last
of my intact self-morals
would open a crimson river
from both of my wrists
and wash me new
for God.