Snowflakes. Only movement.
Twilight comes until twilight goes.
Daylight leaves too early. Swiftly.
The deeper the night, the colder
My January breath suspended,
my thoughts wishing to go
somewhere. Anywhere, other
than here. A deafening
The air is slow. Still. Almost.
Alone, even in the shadow
of the streetlamps. Nobody to
shield your ears from the cold
or dampen the inevitable.
Pointless the task, reviewing patterns
and paths carved into the cartography of
the ego. Realization. What once was
may never be. This season
stays the longest.
Even with full sunlight. The wind,
should it decide, rips through me.
Harsh. I am not here. Not really.
Permanent as my
Flurries obscure constellations and
the Moon. Isolation. The circumference
of my being is reduced, Limited.
Blinded by temporal beauty,
Nothing has happened, or is
happening. The brazen chill
clashes with body heat, the atmosphere
the victor. Obvious. The world
still gets in your eyes.
Time agape with a grey known only
to the night. A solitary trek through the
ordinary. Undisturbed. Each step resonates
the soul-crushing scream
of a thousand snowflakes.
Beneath winter’s fickle façade, the ice
cracks, The fragility of the planet apparent.
Vulnerable. Each season has precious moments.
Gone. Time stands still. This is
my January breath.
©2015 j.g. lewis
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