Sometimes, I wish I were snow.
Pure and white, simple gift of winter.
Complexly beautiful.
And yet, the world curses this perfection
Because it is so cold,
Indifferent to the needs of the
Busy people.
Cold indifference is a sure path
To the isolation I often crave
So perhaps the snow is right
In the end of things.
The snow has only itself,
But it fades so quickly
When struck by just moments
In the sun.
Its perfection is not eternal,
And therefore forgotten,
So perhaps the lifeblood
Within my veins
Is better yet than snow
That I wish I were.
Comment away ^_^
Comments
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I hate the snow and the dismal cold, but WOW, I really like the sentiment you express with this metaphor (or is it an analogy?).
Viewing it from behind the comfort of a thick window, or the dimensional illusion of a picture, nival vistas can be quite awe inspiring.
But caught out in it with nowhere to be shelthered, one might wish for the sun itself to explode and heat the landscape.
This write reminds me of the often strange thought I have, wondering of the "curse of beauty", and how flawed it could be to be perfect.
As opposed to the ideas of "It has to be perfect, because they're perfect! How can they ever know unhappiness and pain?" kind of lives I tend to (bitterly) believe one would live.
Anyhell, this is a really great write, and a bit of a different take on what one would wish for to live a life of serenity.
-cheers
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