mirrors on the fallen snow reflecting where you'd like to go and what you'd be if you could know the narrative that makes it so windows in the sky with eyes exposing soporific lies and passionless dramatic sighs whispering goodbye there's no fortune bright enough to make you and there's no moonbeam light enough to take you or any hammer strong enough to break you unless you start it all alone doors that lead to empty rooms welcoming as wood tombs promising the end of gloom not all what you'd assume douglas brent smith 1974/2023