sitting on a snow covered hill
sunglasses substituting your eyes
you could never imagine
a time of warmth.
you are relentlessly showered with iced knives
and corroded leaves
with your legs crossed
and gloves woven into your hands
you make disfigured snowballs,
and bury them into the ground
preserving your creations
Snow Angels haunt your pride
your limbs are in all the wrong places, they criticise
those goddamn imitations look more like friendly Devils,
the Angels were not as forgiving,
as they claimed to be.
you could barely dodge the snowflakes
that rained from the navy sky
seeping through your layers,
they burnt holes into your joints
the house that sat at the bottom of the hill
was just as empty as its occupants.
making a wish,
on the snowflake that landed on your tongue
you make one final snowball
and watch as it rolled down the hill
increasing in size and superiority
the structure laughed on impact,
the bricks remained intact.
nothing to remain of your snowball
and you were not disappointed
the windows glinted victory
as you drifted away, into another season