#firstpersonplural
Wandering drafts, sly
Whisper in our ears
Shake the roots of our spines
We bury our heads for cold
Scanning the sky
For signs of dainty, floating crystals
Fluttering to the ground
In a hazy blue
Yet frost has frozen our pens
And there is blankness
The horizon is an empty tomb
Snow will liberate our words
The land is as desolate
As our papers
Both hesitating to speak
Some language of beauty
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC