the fields are frozen gold

reindeer

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.

Published by VIKTORIA JEAN

"Do you see the story? Do you see anything?... It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream - making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream sensation... No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence - that which makes its truth, its meaning - its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream - alone." Marlow in Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad.

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