Across the boundaries of time and space
words hang in the air, stuck, like frosty icicles on trees.
They attach themselves, blinding our vision,
showing our vulnerability.
Snow accumulates with sorrow
Dark skies, no stars, silent birds, no color
Gray is the white.
People are lonely, they are by themselves
feels like the end of time.
Patience, yes, but I have no more.
The snow, the cold, the blustery winds
will come and go,
the icicles will take new forms but they will be there for months on end.
Breaking them off with force is not an option, it breaks off all communication where little existed before.
Let them melt, naturally, slowly, let the sun heal their gaping wounds.
We can’t change time nor can we drag it out.
Some things are out of our control.
As hard as it is to accept, do what you have to do to
There will be many sorrows and sometimes,
Appreciate every, little, thing.