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Dec 2018
the air is cold.

an endless slate-grey
chilling frost-ridged trees.

the wind tunnels, whisking away
bird song,
running cars,
and leaves scraping down bare streets;

the kind of bare you only see in winter,
all picked away by the frozen weather.

the world is a drained snow globe,
so still you forget to breathe.

all you can hear
is the static in your ears
and the workings of your own
organs.
if noises could be made in these mornings, not a soul would hear them.
mikarae
Written by
mikarae  19/F/in headspace
(19/F/in headspace)   
569
 
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