Winter days have in their pockets cold wars

if I scratch the morning
will it hurt it as much as it would hurt me?

day with
no alternative but feeling miserable
folded
into cardboard

pass me the paper knife

on my abdomen I’ll sculpt a portcullis
the mighty entrance
for armies of deception to ride their horses

inside of me

the sound of hooves
fighting to break the echo of rage

(January. 2012)