The soul of a boot.

The windblast strikes my face violently.
I turn away burrowing further into my jacket.
The angry gust quickly blows out,
But the snow is still falling.

Falling gently unrelenting.
Such peaceful calamity.

Hiding my cracked red lips in my scarf.
I catch the last glimpse of a large snowflake upon my jacket
Before it melts, never to be replicated.
Thrusting my hands back into their pocket homes I trudge along.

Fleeting snowflakes fall.
Beauty gone so quickly, tragedy.

My nose blushes at the touch of winter.
Red ought to depict passion, but here is felt in pain.
And my eyes glance up to the grey sky,
To intake all its irresplendant mediocrity.

Dreary dimly lit days,
Where the masses walk unwavering .

I put my head down to count my steps.
Each next step, more important than the one before.
But there is always one more. Always moving,
never present to the footprints now left behind.

The snow boot’s tread,
Tells the whole story.