WHITE

Winter holds me, a cold grip on my throat,

but different than summer

the pressure stays at that, breaks no bones,

kills in a gentle manner.

When the lights shine bright in the nightly landscape

and her snow glitters

like static all over town, burying houses,

and the thousands of tiny flakes

pile up to one giant mass, and I could drown in the forms

like a corpse covered up,

a trail of frozen blood destroying the purity.

White; the color of death

and black; the color of destruction.

But the snowflakes, they never die

and they never live,

just repeat an endless cycle of melting to water

and freezing bitterly once the leaves fall

and fall merges to the new year.

January, the month of silence

envelops me like I’m trapped in a maze.

And always, the constant pressure of winter

gently pushing down on the clouds.