I always feel cold when
I watch it snow.

Outside windows,

white sheets sleet like linen sheets.

Textile worshipping cults praise Satin.

Maybe we're all better off believing in something,

getting down on our knees,
and phalic objects.

Because in the end
none of us really know
why we are here?

But does there have to be a reason

Can't it be enough to watch the seasons.

To fall in and out of love,

to have feelings.