white death
is perched in a
tall tree.

it is the dead of
winter. there is snow
like it were soil.
the wind wisps a
carte blanche. theres
nothing to see here.

i hope you are
hidden well
in the white too.
white death looks down
a long scope.

white death hides,
the ruby burn from
one cigarette
behind his hand.
he takes a single drag
and butts it
on a branch.
while grey smoke fills
a white world.