Why Still Blue is the World

The sky shrouds no sin, no veil, no dirge,

only the Wall sobs of wind’s white soot purge;

footsteps swallowed by mother’s pawn,

legacy sunk under the  Snow, a dawn withdrawn.

Frost rips the ribs of the faceless land,

the air a scalpel in a surgeon’s hand.

The snow does not fall; it devours, it feeds,

Cold as avenge, sharp as reeds.

The stars are fangs, the sky, a maw,

a hunger wrought from ancient law;

no heaven, no hell, no grave nor pyre,

only this field of frost and fire.

I walk where Sylvia strained,  

where Lowell given in sonnets chained,  

where Hart Crane plunged & Berryman fell,  

I drone their remnants: hush—don’t tell.  

The snow is sharp, a daggered confession,  

flakes like razors—cold yet cushion.  

Respite graves under eons deep,

a lullaby the dead still keep.

O Orpheus, turn back again!

The ice is thin, the light is grim,  

my shadow cracks against the rim  

of some abyss—a silver spane

half-mouthed by specters, gaunt & dim.  

Their voices buzz like broken wire,

we all have gone, you must go higher.

But higher leads to hollow air,

and lower—O, there’s nothing there.

Tell me, Yeats, in linen white,  

does the falcon circle still in flight?  

Or did it crash through ribs of steel,  

its beak a wound that cannot heal?  

Sisyphus grins with jagged teeth,  

he knows the sky; it knows his grief.  

It presses down, a bruising weight,  

a coffin lid, a twist of fate.  

And tell me, Blake, did angels burn  

or merely flicker, twist, and turn?  

Did Plath taste iron, salt, abyss,  

or only echoes shaped like lips?  

O, the sky is a wound that will not close,  

its blueness mocks, it overflows—  

as if the dead could drink and rise,  

as if the breathless could advise.  

Then why, still blue, the world remains?  

The veins of trees, the ghost of rains,  

the breath of God upon the glass,  

a scream too vast for throats to grasp.  

I speak to silence, it does not speak back,  

it only gives—more space, more lack.  

Each step I take dissolves to mist,  

a footprint never born, dismissed.  

Medea’s hands, so red, so raw,  

clutching frost that will not thaw.  

The world turns blue—it laughs, it weeps,  

its sky a promise it never keeps.  

No footprints left, no path behind,  

the past undone, the clocks unkind.  

A door of ice, a key of bone—  

the weight of breath, yet not my own.  

I step, I slip, I—  

               gone.

The world still blue. The sky, still wide.  

The snow, a mouth, gapes open—  

              swallows.