Snowflakes settle in my fire while their friends toss a coin.
One flake falls past my left hand, disappears
Into one half of my mind.
The snowflake falls, falls down a black hole,
Past thousands of file cabinets,
Ever questioning,
Ever discovering,
Ever expanding.
Each began as a small question; now they are hours of study.
The snow understands, it recognizes the time it takes to expand the cabinets.
To know.
It rides on a violin’s melody, up, up to the surface
Where I stand on a bridge between knowledge and possibilities.
The snowflake falls again, now past my right hand.
A council on all sides begins to chatter,
To map out all these worst-case scenarios.
They watch as I fall with bloodied knuckles.
No, it’s not brave enough.
Not perfect enough.
Not selfless enough.
The snow hits the bottom of the hole
Only to be thrown back by the trampoline of pain.
It looks to the exit and finds me again
Standing between the chaos.
The snow is my past.
It threatens to overwhelm me,
To use me,
To break me.
Yet there is a tint in this world.
It is not browsing until the eleventh o
Or dissecting the moment between a mutual glance.
The snow may help me break this grey tint.
I shape it into a weapon
And break the one-way mirror I was behind.
Now I patch up where the snow had rested,
Look outside myself.
And for a moment,
I escape this palace
With a generous white flag.
Thanks for reading!
