There they sit
in silence.
White flowers
capped,
floating in space,
wrapped in snow.
A disturbing mixture of
beauty and pain.
A juxtaposition
of awe and desperation
There is no protest.
They just are,
existing in the frosty haze
As if there is nothing
wrong.
No ranting.
No pissy moods.
Just complacency.
The soft petals
seem cozy
despite the piercing cold
that their blanket
affords them.
Wouldn't it be nice
to live with
the knowledge that death
is coming, and still
float, as if everything
was right?
And now
as smoke trickles
from my fingers
I pull my thoughts
around me and
begin to envy those
small white
balls of fluff.
And I wish
it could
be
that
easy.
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