life and death are
funny concepts.
we know nothing of either.
they are so simple,
yet so technical, so
complex.
like black and white
is death black?
or is it white?
is immortality a combination
of both?
life seems almost pointless,
death being just as
meaningless in the sense that
there almost seems to
be no reason to
either live or die.
why live when death is
there to take it away,
why die when you've lived?
it's difficult to grasp the concept
of death,
of no life,
when you are alive.

Jane-
It was cold. The sun tried to shine through the endless layers of foamy, winter clouds. It was grey. Snow had settled, frozen. Drip, drip, dripped... and refrozen. Lumps of blackened ice lined the skeletal streets of the city, asleep. Hibernating. It was dark, quiet and dead. The icy, dry winds blew through the empty stomach of the town, drying out the bricks on the buildings, cracking the trees into bits, smaller and smaller. Your breath created a thick white cloud in the air above you, but thinned and disappeared, just like everything else.

Jon-
She blended in with the bleached building. White skin, white hair, ivory coat. Her eyes stood out like a sapling in the winter though, pushing through the frozen surface, green and hopeful. She was almost nothing special, if you didn't look twice. But on the second look, she was like pink and blue and yellow. A neon sign. Special. She brought a light to the slumbering city, a light that I held in my careful hands, because she lit up for me, and me only. A glow-in-the-dark star, only seen at night, when there's nobody there to see. I held her carefully because lights can go out if you're not.
I clicked the button one more time, capturing her. Her eyes and the gentle light they held. Flickering.
         "Stop, that's enough,"
But she said it with a smile.

Jane-
I hate the winter, but I love it, too. I feel like I belong. I belong in the cold, white winter where there is nothing to see and nothing to feel.
That's also why I hate it.

trees don't always grow
tall and strong
sometimes they grow skinny
cause it takes too long.
there's never enough
space at the bottom
so it's a race to the
top, and then it's just
a year or two until
it's time to chop.
All of a sudden it's
acres of land, looks
like a beach without
water or sand.
No use crying over it,
it's already done
but it's also hard to
say "it's time to have
fun"
because when there's
something eating
you at the back of your
brain, chances
are it'll leave a tear
stain
in the middle of
a thought,
and you'll just be caught
in a big ***** field
after the big chop.

This won't last long.
I need to get it down
before it stumbles again.
I need to hold on,
before it slips through
my hot palms,
into the well i've
built inside myself.
I can't let it slide down
that slippery well,
because it might be
the last time I hold it
in my heart, let it
dance through my blood
and glow through
my dead, disconnected
eyes.
I will hold it tight this time,
because who knows?
Will it be the last?
Will I be able to fight
once I know the rope has broken
and the bucket has sprung
a leak?
It might be the last time
before the weather weakened
wires wither into nothing
under my very skin.
So right now,
I need to get it down.
Right now,
I'm happy.

i miss the snow.
i miss the crunch of it under
my hiking boots,
the way if fell silently.
if you stood quietly, though,
you could hear how
silent it really is.
you could hear the flakes
landing on blackened branches,
barren and naked.
you could see the plume
of your own white breath
take flight like a dove
into the grey sky,
a part of you
lifted up to the weighted
limbs of murmuring trees,
a part of you to join
the falling snow,
silent.

I plant my bare feet on
wet concrete
little stones pushing
into my foot
with their dull heads

they dig up and
I dig down into
what they call the earth

I'm not sure the earth is
still here

I look up into the sky
what could be blue is
smeared with gray
white and black
flat clouds swollen
with more grey
rain

thunderbolts strike
and rumbling cries
of thunder roll off the
tumbling shoulders
of the wind's crashing
body

the clouds rip open

there was a vase.
it was nothing special.
not very pretty
to look at.
it sat on a shelf
in a window.
it was behind
another vase, though.
the vase in front was
dustless and beautiful.
the vase in front had
flowers in it.

the ugly vase
sat for years
behind the lovely
vase.
the lovely vase had
everything and more.
elegant curves,
tasteful colors.
it was so beautiful
no one looked at
the curveless,
off white vase
behind it.

one day a child
ran through the
store.
the table by the window
was bumped
and the ugly vase
fell.
it shattered into
needle thin shards
and eventually swept
away.
the lovely vase
was bought that
day.