The sky is weeping its ashes -
the ashes of angels’ wings burned:
burned by a sight crying anguish.
Peace in this doomscape just smashes.
All with a blanket is covered,
the buildings and Nature and us:
this to obscure what is tainted -
Hate, though, won’t ever be smothered.
Here we are pelted with snowflakes,
pellets of pureness but frigid,
sterile when its targets need love:
glove-wearing alters our handshakes.
This isn’t whiteness that’s beauty,
nor is it laudable virtue.
This is the white of a Coldness:
something just doing its Duty.
The sky cries copious ashes;
the screams sound, too high to be heard.
We’re hateful, warful; I’m bitter.
A hope flies, sees sunlight and crashes.