Doubts, like thorns, are pricking at my heart. May they be pruned back before they draw blood.

Abra Kadabra
Dreams are smoke and mirror futures,
Clever conjurings of the magician mind.
Hope's slight of hand
Is faster far than reality's eye.

Is such magic a lie?
Bringing such sweet joy in its mystery
But disappointment laced in betrayal
When it fails.

How are we
So happily, repeatedly, deceived?
Ah, but the magician
never reveals his secrets.

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Bare twisted boughs
Like the arms of lost souls
Pleading against the indifferent grey sky.

Dante would place me among you
For my audacity in answering the blade's
Beckoning grin.

But its sharp sheen smiles sweetly,
Promising enveloping embrace of night
And deep dreamless sleep.

Surely no winter wind awaits
To bite at my bark
Driving tears of young amber from my heart?

But I shall wait for spring, nonetheless.
Knives may call to my slim wrists,
But I won't answer. Not yet.