A dark winter night of the soul

A bed of snow gently lays
upon the ground of this winter night.
Peaceful, calm, beautiful.

The pure white sits untarnished
from the next days rummaging.
A still, all encompassing beauty
floats upon the chilled air.

A different chill
than the iciness of my heart.
An undisturbed serene
stark contrast to the violence
and agitation in my soul.

What was once white
Is now tarnished by bruises
from years of thrashing into the darkness.

The night is no darkness
Compared to my soul,
and yet I feel the pure snow falling,
the beautiful white accumulating.

No longer outside, but in.
In me, there is still purity.
Hibernating beneath
the cold, calm snow
lays a dormant rose.

Soon will be the spring time,
Passion and purity erupting to the surface
Of this frozen ground.

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.