Coasting over snowy fields of an imitating world,
I yearn to feel a painful comfort from the earth
as my stripped form can no longer find warmth
buried within this barren space—blue is all I touch.
Cold lungs no longer satisfied with dreamy breezes
transiently blowing over my mouth and wings,
every piece of my body stops pumping as I fall
like a broken spirit into winds biting at my skin.
A sharp bitterness cuts through my chest
as I look down to see the unforgiving clouds
that will not soften my journey with hope
or reveal the divine on a fairytale mountaintop;
I am to be sent alone into the funnel of smoke.
My head is an earthquake, but the sky does not mind;
it torments placidity, equaling my mass and gravity
and the distance I measure to each end—equations
like fog could never support my unknown intentions.
I Inhale these wispy seeds of recycled water and doubt
and slip through the white cushioned apparitions,
as I find myself saturated, a snowflake built on dust.
Through the chaos, balance will bring life—death.
Darkness now engulfs my sight, as the tornado
tears the land like night around my pale figure.
I inherently delve into this ferocious wind
with freezing palms that split and fill with dirt;
I cup both bleeding hands around this earth
and mold the particles as a child packs snow
into a tight round ball—Is this believing?
I place my creation into the spiraling wind,
and it circles up through the storm and is thrown
past the clouds, cast over the wispy blue space
like a saturated dream that I can never keep;
as torn dust eternally swirls around a center,
ashes will beg the wind to burn once again.