The storm we both see outside reminds us of the storms inside, the ones we cannot name, nor tame. The whirlwind of floating through life rushes trough then leaves us empty.
Like a casket.
Yet the grace of daylight’s afterglow is within our grasp. A winding road with no surprises but the ones we hide from.
When winter has killed the trees and the fear of you has buried everything in a white, flawless, coat.
A lasting impression in a sea of vague remembering filled with teardrops as cold as ice.
Only then will sorrow hit you in all its might and leave you for dead
in a snow field where nobody dares to roam anymore.
