The sun rises. 

And I am icy, motionless in God\'s touch. 

I stopped praying long ago, and instead closing 

my eyes. 

It is not cold when you die while still breathing. 

When you die without your blood running cool. 

I am a mummy, smothered by 100-pounds of 


Trudging the only way of moving. 

My mother\'s flushed porcelain skin is lost on me.

My father\'s laxed chocolate goo for eyes is a 

memory faded; a paper torturously folded 

and unfolded. 

I\'ve haphazardly taped my pieces together,

The blood muddying the adhesive, an effort that 

never went unnoticed. 

I am dead, yet still, I am. 

I am smiling, laughing, skipping and jogging. 

Yet all in the same gust of biting wind,

I am a substanceless shell of curdling screams 

and icicles for eyes. 

Oh! But can you see me? 

Can you feel me...Gone?

A whisper of a scent, lost in folds of inky 

nothingness that has colored my fingers clear. 

The sun sets. 

And I am icy, motionless in God\'s touch.