The Bled

Somewhere between the frozen layers sleeps a fragile woman.
Waiting for her husband to remove the shards of glass.
The sun betrays the light that it once shed.
And daughter cuts the hair.
Tangled in a silver brush.
Spitting at a broken mirror.
I feel the movement of ghosts in the room.
She keeps a photograph locked in her mouth.
The smell of turpentine drips from the walls.
Forgive and forget.
Relive and regret.
You're not alone.
I've seen the dead arise.