a willowy, pearlescent doll
whose fiery hair betrays this winter morn
doe-eyed and wrapped in chiffon,
white lace, mist
and billowing down into sheets of ice

she sighs inside the crystal case,
and her dress flows into the frozen lake,
caught inside the thick glaze
against the wind

caught by the pressure,
the silence
in the misty sheen she scribbles
I can’t feel my fingers

outside of her coffin, the trees too are encased
as freezing rain slithers down their limbs
to coalesce, weighing down the trees
who in turn creak wearily
under the pressure

Copyright © 2014 Bari Adams. All rights reserved.

I always feel so damn constricted, locked in my mind’s fabricated network of bullshit. I once thought I could reason my way into happiness, but over-analyzation has destroyed me in some ways, and I’ve become trapped in this system of anguish and uncertainty.



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