Of the Snow by Preston Chan
The glistening snow on my back
Halts the frozen death around me.
Looking down, four delicate fluffs of snow
Oh wait, that’s only me.
I look around, nothing beyond yonder except
An endless dark mahogany array of lifeless trees.
Nothing in sight, so shall I ask
What am I doing here?
Daringly sickening like a silver bullet,
At the nook of black eyes,
A grieving leaf falls angelically
To meet its fate as a hidden gem in the white.
Quiet, although failing to silence melancholy.
White, yet lies ominous black that is ever so present.
The seeming balance is outraged
As she weeps in her Siberian fit.
But alas, the ache for something more.
Letting that brass-white light whisk me far, far away.
I guess I was not to be.
Perhaps destined — to be a gem of the free.
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