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Snow Drift
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Prose Poetry The snow drifts white like deep soft cotton. With each step trudging through the banks my footprints disappear as the whiteout wipes out my existence. Lost in a blizzard of mental anguish blinding and sheer frostbite from the inside out crystalizes each thought frozen there forever. Each avalanche forces me to run, escape, gasping for life. Blue in the bitter frost of depression.
At the apex of the alpine my screams are whispers. As they echo back the percussion takes my breath away at the crushing vibration on my chest. Which way is out, hypothermia? The blood red tears freeze before they trickle off my skin: bloodcicles.
Again, nicely expressed!
Again, nicely expressed! *reaching to nightstand for warm milk* ;-)
....
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "