By Ahmed Latif
The winter is fresh with shadows and frozen with light.
Nothing to prescribe yet volumes to write.
The paper shies away from the ink, so wicked and glossed.
Wild hopes paint parsimoniously until all meaning is lost.
Timeless emotions ossify into tired repetition.
Aimless howling incites a voluptuous sedition.
Burn a candle for goodwill.
Place your shadows on the windowsill.
In the cold autumn months the heat is revered.
In perfect darkness there is nothing to be smeared.
This ritual is concluded by appropriating a vantage
To heal a wound without using a bandage.