I opened my window br and the cold blasted through br sending books br toppling br from my desk, br br snow riddled hardbacks br lay open like mouths br with crumpled tongues of page, br br there was nothing outside br but winter br and the bleached cloak br of whitefall br about this br beat down br city, br br and when br I pulled br the window closed br all I saw was br the battered mug br of a man sick-of- br it-all br which masked br the soul-bits br of boy-heart br and longing-to- br feel-alive, br br this golden beard br that grow br down br toward my feet br and further still br with ear br to wisdom br and eyes still br as those of beast br and glistening back br into all-of-this- br as-me, br br and yet to dance br behind my eyelids br in black br and dream br and wish, br br but lay now about this br bed of face br and in the wet br to one day dry br against these br thoughts.