The Winter of Forgetting

Silent wind sprints past blood cheeks
on a bitter January landscape, never
once stopping to breathe “hello”.  The
center of town, divested of flesh, is
as barren as my sagging, filth-coated
throat; high battered bell does not ring.
Rich golden throats do not sing.
In this winter of forgetting, memory’s
weighty gates blow open, beckoning me
inside with familiar yet frightening arms. 

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