As though ten winters have passed since we arrived,
thin ice beneath our heels, snowflakes in our breath.
Lucent white in ten miles’ sight
no sign of impending summer.
Yet somebody dreamt of this perfect world.
Such a waste of lush green pastures
every leaf chilled to the very spine –
botanical shards of piercing ice.
White winter world.
Wherefore art thou, Colour?
Blood runs through these icicles,
every touch ten Fahrenheits too cold.
Truth be told, it’s colder as your heart gets old,
even the summer fields are frozen gold.
—
P.S FTS. Wrote this so quick.
So many fricking things in my head.
For the first time I can’t count
the number of times I swore out loud.
Adieu.
Viktoria Jean 
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