I am haunted
by a wilderness
of the soul.

Bleak, permafrost,
nothing blooms
and nothing grows,
except the cold.

Icy roots burrow
toward the heart
through a hole
in the mantel,
where my head goes.

In this age,
there is no sun.

That god is dead and gone.

Who is left
to torture me
with glimmers
of hope,
as the cold
cracks my bones,
like rotten fenceposts,
in this wilderness

of the dead and alone?

© CG Tenpenny, 2021.

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