An Icy Bag of Trinkets || John Pesebre

Take me to an ice-covered mountain
From where snowballs roll down
To a frozen lake below, like a set of
Marbles in the hand of a dead child.

Where the chill of the morning fog
Burns my skin, and freezes my tears
Like funny dew drops falling from
The roof sills down to a frigid earth.

There where no vultures stake out
And no bear lies in wait to ambush --
Just me and these little trinkets of pain
Rattling with the howling Siberian wind.