Flakelets
This world's an icy tundra
A land of snow and wind
Swirling frost bites
And harrowing nights
The sorrows of nature
Cut through the snow-covered mountains
Howling through the crevices
Of every stone and corner
Nothing seems to be beautiful here
But the denizens falling slowly to the ground
The flakes, dangling at the fingertips
Of the puppeteering air,
Dance with one another
In their fine clothing
And sharp crystal paradigms
Laughing their ephemeral laugh
Falling carelessly and swaying
To the songs of their Moira
Celebratory yet somber is the tune,
The one chance waltz,
As the proximity closes
Near the moribund ground
And with death's gentle kiss
They lose form and meld
To the hills of snow
We try to remember their lives
But can't help but to forget
It's how our world is. It's how we are.
Beings meant to make a lasting or infatuating stand
Our existence, a weeping reverie.
Our existence, a tragically beautiful flakelet.