weiße hexe

I can't wait for it to snow.

I can't wait to confuse white ground with horizon, red cheeked and dizzy under dead branches whispering boreal spells that Spring, crouching in wait and listening, later crying rain and cursing thunder, possesses zero hope to decipher. To regard night sky reflecting snow with the eerie reflective glow of perpetual teasing dark a dying sun would torture a codependent planet with while the tenants scurried to think up some other source of warmth, planning virgin space flights, forced to the brink. A sky more like purple graveyard haze than any cemetery on the Eve of All Saints in history. A sky confusing the pineal glands of poets. Cold lit expanse and a language few speak, winter scarring with its big empty, assuring no one leaves their houses so you can stand in the middle of the street, reclaiming it from cars that would on any other day swerve to avoid greeting you. You can pretend it's the apocalypse while your ears get filled with the ice age.

Exactly the quiet i'm always chasing.