coldmeal.

the appetite for ice is an acquired taste
which can only develop whilst fully encased.

when something becomes nothing.

seas pour off the planet edge,
skies dissolve into the void,
small thoughts stretch and stretch and stretch
til darker notions are deployed.

wintered bones

through three thick blankets and a throw
I count my ribs by touch and know
it snows black silhouettes of snow,
my eyes then solarize and close.

The Quiet Violence of Realization.

It isn't the whiteness of the blank page which daunts you. 
What erodes your wits is: The great multitude
of imperfections you begin to find upon the once hermetic surface.
The eventual awareness that something is written there already.
A parallel: Descending on a barren desert slowly from on high
and finally beginning to understand that not the most desiccate place is barren.
The conclusion: Self-admission of perception
(not-at-all-worthy of overwriting preexisting creator).

It began with a lowered brim.

With his head bowed and sight gripped shut he found he could convince himself into mocking Reality's surgical truth, and so he donned a heavy dark cloak with a cavernous hood and began to pray constantly.