The Ramblings of A Scatterbrain

Write. Sleep. Write. Drink. Sleep. Write. Drink. Write. Drink.

Snowscapes

The snow is still boasting,
soaring rabidly in the bitter
wind of a wild week.

Feathers and dirt entwine
with the falling rarity,
acting as a cold cushion for
homeless heads to resign.

The clock chatters like thunder
where empty people lay their bones,
monologuing to each other and
teasing as heated hands wander.

The sky saw fit to announce another
reason for people to lay in bed;
entwined in an orgasmic gaze and
focusing on fleeting numbness
— now I know how a cold cushion feels.

Callous reactions aside,
snow is beautiful.

To cut like glass but look like fluff is an
achievement seldom mustered
and I can’t help but smile.

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