Spent (Poetry)

All out of fight — I’m on the canvas — beat
the morning spinning in the snowlight
dripping icicles — and night
a grey monster still clawing —
dragging me back
to the unconscious cave
carved full of bones.

Dreams strangle round —
the air is too awkward to breathe
the god in my head had vacated —
crawled way underground
I’m spread on the floor — an impossible tree
whispering to herself
limbs twisted — spirit broken
the jeering fades
those fickle faces vanished in the cold
spent like leaves.