Word is like snowflakes in a snow globe—
it swirls, it settles, soft against the ground.
The clock resists—time wants to disagree.
I rock in a chair that creaks with memory.
Words melt like snow, or snowball into more.
They hush, they howl, they knock at the door.
I chew ice cubes, retreat to the bed,
chilled by the thoughts still spinning in my head.
Words can **** and snow can too—
a quiet beauty mixed with truth.
Life feels most vivid in weather’s breath,
in storms, in stillness, in the kiss of death.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 12:40 AM UTC
Word is like snowflakes in a snow globe—
it swirls, it settles, soft against the ground.
The clock resists—time wants to disagree.
I rock in a chair that creaks with memory.
Words melt like snow, or snowball into more.
They hush, they howl, they knock at the door.
I chew ice cubes, retreat to the bed,
chilled by the thoughts still spinning in my head.
Words can **** and snow can too—
a quiet beauty mixed with truth.
Life feels most vivid in weather’s breath,
in storms, in stillness, in the kiss of death.
