Snow

Snow 

I have always loved snow.

My favourite kind is the angel feathers.

A whirlwind of white thick flakes

That stick to the sides of posts and trees.

The way it swallows sounds except whispers.

It transforms all things.

The shadows change colour.

You can not tell sky from ground or ground from sky.

Dancing one way, then another.

Like a whole world is dreaming.

All things familiar are strange.

All things strange familiar.

It vanishes with the hot touch.

Burns cold into hands and feet and noses.

It smells like left over thunder

Bitten tongue

And cold.

No matter my rage or pain it transform me too.

Smoothed away ugliness.

Cools the temper

Leaving something pure

Like snow.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn. - Thomas Gray

These Eyes

These Eyes


These eyes are sore from tears.
Again.
My solace in soothing strangers
Who will never know my pains.
Yet the wolf in me knows.
Growls and draws back.
Digging deep into the snow.
What is underneath this cold?
I am frightened of falling
Into the abyss in my heart.
Of losing my balance.
Cover me in the ashes of my burnt bridges.
Let me howl like the wind.
Can I be brave enough to be hopeful?
Can I?
Can I dream of the desert and the warm sun,
So it seeps into my broken bones?
My mother's corpse lies,
Small and fragile.
Black blood on snow.
What are my tears for?
The ghostly reflection of my own death?
The idea of love?
Or is it the cold in me that burns my eyes?
There are no words.
Only the wind
The moon
The snow.

Poetry is thought that breathe and words that burn. - Thomas Gray