To them it is just a dark night,
With winds picking up the snow and then dropping it,
As if they no longer wanted to carry the burden.
To them it is a day where they gather around a fireplace,
Drinking endless cups of cocoa and wrapped in blankets.
Until they relize the sweat on their foreheads,
Because the hea is no longer comforting, but suffocating.
They do not unwrap a blanket from thier bodies or die down the fire.
Because the image of a family, fire, cocoa, blankets and a snowy night is out of a movie.
And they enjoy that image of a "perfect moment".
But to me the snow picked up from the ground are phantoms,
Flying parallel to the ground and disappaering in shadows.
That I am here watching them bury cars,
making difficult holes and hills for the poor human feet to walk on.
To me it is trapping fire in a cage,
But like a bird keeps singing,
Until it is untended to and dies.
To me it is ice growing on your skin,
Turning it red, pink or even blue.
And if you were to show the innocent eyes the ice growing on your skin,
They would know it is anyhting, but a superpower.
But a pain.
It numbs not only the body, but the heart,
So the old love for Winter is destryoed like the skin frozen in the wind.