I’m not sure how cautiously I can tread.
I’ve only just arisen as the de facto
head of state-sanctioned cognitive dissonance.
Behold the ghosts I tote
through the bleak euphoria of midwinter!
Frazzled phantoms composed of rose.
A bit on the nose,
but I’ve been accused of worse.
On the course laid bare before me,
I can find no room for divagation.
Only taut familiarity, drumming
emaciated fingers on each careful twist and turn.
Nostalgia’s withering embrace.