Push me into corners. And as they say, grief is only able to possess. The rotting body clad in ancient clothes is left behind with a wave of the hand. I have gone away. The bed is cold and empty.
Trees bend their boughs toward the earth.
And nighttime birds float as black faces. It was the hand reaching out through the mirror. You have nothing more to find. You have nothing more to loose. The cold season drifts over the land.