Snowflakes. Only movement.
        Twilight comes until twilight goes.
      Daylight leaves too early. Swiftly.
      The deeper the night, the colder
           the darkness.

My January breath suspended,
         my thoughts wishing to go
    somewhere. Anywhere, other
        than here. A deafening
           winter silence.

       The air is slow. Still. Almost.
            Alone, even in the shadow
            of the streetlamps. Nobody to
                shield your ears from the cold
          or dampen the inevitable.

Pointless the task, reviewing patterns
    and paths carved into the cartography of
      the ego. Realization. What once was
            may never be. This season
               stays the longest.

Even with full sunlight. The wind,
    should it decide, rips through me.
Harsh. I am not here. Not really.
            Permanent as my
                 January breath.

Flurries obscure constellations and
the Moon. Isolation. The circumference
         of my being is reduced, Limited.
            Blinded by temporal beauty,
         or tears.

   Nothing has happened, or is
        happening. The brazen chill
   clashes with body heat, the atmosphere
       the victor. Obvious. The world
              still gets in your eyes.

Time agape with a grey known only
      to the night. A solitary trek through the
      ordinary. Undisturbed. Each step resonates
           the soul-crushing scream
   of a thousand snowflakes.

      Beneath winter’s fickle façade, the ice
   cracks, The fragility of the planet apparent.
Vulnerable. Each season has precious moments.
            Gone. Time stands still. This is
                   my January breath.

©2015 j.g. lewis