i long for the times
of snow angels and sledding.
how free we were,
way back when.
we slipped down the hill,
narrowly avoiding several trees,
and mr. wilkins,
just to crash into the fence at the bottom.
we flopped face first
into the crisp snow
and pretended we could fly,
flapping our arms and soaring.
those days were beautiful,
weren't they?
i don't think we once
thought about tomorrow.
i live for moments
when the sky gathers
my broken body
tenderly within its gentle embrace
when ebony clouds entwine
with shining, radiant stars
hope is a thing with feathers, you say.
i met it, once.
it's repulsive.
grotesque.
hideous.
it sings too, apparently.
cawing loudly,
off-key,
at 3 o'clock in the morning.
stupid little trees
speak to me
through their whispering leaves
they seem to grieve.
stupid little clouds
cry so damn loud
through snow and rain
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