Rust

Scene fades...rust splits. Broken hand trembles, grasps the pen feebly, strength slowly returning. Rust drifts down creating patterns in the snow where there were no patterns. The sun, still obscured, reluctant to take on its responsibilities, casts all in amber. I lie naked in the snow spreading arms and legs, making the image of an angel. Recollections poke their green buds through the new layer of thin ice, only slightly bruised for the effort. I remember a man who for a brief moment believed that he was the son of God. I notice how numb I am from the cold even as the radiant ball of the sun kaleidoscopes off misty teardrops. What care I for Shakespearian dramas?

In the end I take the easy way out. The snow – cold linens. The sun – a white light. My tongue, swollen, moves slowly, tasting reality – slimy, parched. Fading in and out. I'm in ill humor. I've been in that room always, recovering from the incision.