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It’s rarely this quiet any time of year. 

The snow insulates the cries 

Of joy, perhaps, 

I highly doubt it.

The blinding surface spreads farther than the mind comprehends,
Lowering its icy fingers to caress a field of flowers. 
Any would do. 
In bloom, premature.

Just a touch befalls the flower

A light pressure, unwelcome 

But nevertheless, light.


Almost imperceptibly,

In the smallest of increments,

The icy mallet pushes deeper. 

Past the point of comfort. 

Far, far past.


It suffocates the bud, slowly

In the very grass that watched it grow

Into the dirt from which it rose.


Slain, the shrivelled flower, 

Under the sickly sheath of silence.


The very one in which I bathe,

Tending to my split confidences, 

Clearing my mind with its pure light.

Swathed in the serenity of a silent night.


It won’t be this quiet forever. 

It’ll be gone too soon.

An ice age is just that, an age.


But for now,

It’s deathly quiet

This afternoon.

MY Guiltiest Pleasure



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