icy pours down the spine, splashing red ropes along the way.
while at the core smolders.
and pines needles pierce the ink filled plastic bags overhead.
reaching reaching always up and over.
farther south, ghastly palms lurk to be filled,
receding from street lamp glow.
and I overshot it. by 27.6 miles. shyly i bury back through the tunnel i brazenly forged just minutes prior, resigned to retreat and advancement in the self-same sigh.