Armor - IV

My checkered shirt, a neutral tone,
With cardboard-brown-boxes over the creamy stone,
Almost like little houses, overcast,
The shapes drowned by the circle-sea of the past.

The buttoned sleeve didn't seem so tight,
But now my hands try too hard not to touch.
And I walk out in the mist despite
The knowledge that I can't see too much.

My early December helps me remember,
The cold of the bright mornings,
Lost in the ice's adorning.

And I want it, it's passive warning,
The transparent edges which I fold down,
The last sheet of winter paper,
My words' vapour,
Spoken as what's ahead is dawning,
My breath transforming into its own creator,
As my writing's fawning.

I feel a tug at my wrist,
But it seems to impossible as such,
And I should have known it when I turned.
A breaking branch, it's leaves clinging.
And all the while, the wind is singing.

Carefully, I take my other hand,
And with fingers forever still,
I catch the button, and the other limb trembles.
My fear shortens my breath,
This is the risk I am taking,
My last waking,
My middle faking,
My first; aching,
But I must go on.
As the fog is flaking,
The attachment disassembled,
And not only does the branch spring free,
From its fearful bind,
My hands stop shaking,
And although my eyes can see,
My fear is blind.