coming back (from death)

i am
of my own
winter this

       lone

branch bare, where
none withered
along with
me, de
           composing
into feel
             ings bleak
as whiteness
                       streaked
str  etch  ed    toward     oblivion.

perhaps i
planted my sor
                   row
like spring rain'
                         s
   wind/s/wept
tears, a
future of dream, a
flowering no
                     thing
                             ness
where none
remain but
me,
tasting these bitter
                     sweet
fruits of sleep
                     less
                           sleep.

a
  lone a
            gain, re
                        suming this
journey toward
perpetual autumn, to
shed every
shivered skin, to
bear myself, bare, as
                                 an
                                     other
winter
lays down its blueprint
for long sought and drawn
out re
               birth,
a redemption.
some
          thing
a
  kin to
for
    giving my
                    self
of these aching
sea
    sons.