Burnt Snow

The kind of mist, made from
The left overs whilst drawing
A cascade of a white crescent
Moon; which by all means holds
A charade of untold brawls with
Himself, and of screams that
Compose his natural state of
Being verbose, and being hard to
Understand;

Yes, that kind.

The kind of cold, made from
The spaces that mould the
Braces of places laid of clear
Glaciers; which, oddly, contain
The stars that wear themselves
In stitches; quietly dismantling
The broken shelves of wickedly
Witches, and sleep which need be
Awoken of dreams;

Yes, that kind.

The kind of grey, made from
The horrors which may corrode
The magnanimous warriors of your
Mind; which, callously, speaks of
Unkind injustice, but does nothing
To the wiz of the walls which bring
The buzz that stings your heart on
A whole rung, because you
Hung the soul;

Yes, that kind.

That is the kind of glitter and sorrow
She is made of; the kind you can, and
Only can, think you would wallow;
She is the happy of the melancholy,
She is the light of the dark,
She is the sweet of the bitter,
She is the (sole) burnt snow,
Threatening to swallow you completely,
And leaving you begging for more.

Yes, my love, you are that kind;
Yes, my love, you are her.

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7 thoughts on “Burnt Snow

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