Snow (Ashes)

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. 

The End

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