Every shift is winter

Ashes feel cold when scrunched up in a fist.

Every step goes ahead

Of it's past one

And makes the snow fall harder:

A warm cover for the bliss.

And since déjà-vus don't exist,

I am left alone with hypocrites.

 

I'm not as shameful, when you kiss me,

Frosty lips down my hips

And the saliva is dripping

Into snowy, dirty puddles (of ink).

Shall we inscribe this 

As growing up?

 

I freeze my nails off

In my fist

And watch the beautiful, empty

People by my side.

Wouldn't the elder be happy 

To bathe in this endless ice?

 

I sink deeper into your glossy eyes:

They look like puddles

And I could write complaints

With my fingers dipped inside,

But your careless sight

Is sickening.

 

I'm losing my cryptic

Pride for the bliss

And the muddy patches 

Are sainted with white.