Snowflake Song

Here, we celebrate a life. We say that it's a new beginning, and then we weep. Here, we discover clarity again, as snowflakes coat a coffin lid - each one unique as if to say they were crafted, fearfully, demonstrating that love is meticulous. Some here are stoic, their faces washed with unfeeling while other faces exude sorrow. I see sadness and apathy juxtaposed like opposites on a color wheel and wonder why this place seems monochrome. Violins begin sweeping the air of its solitude. A snowflake song beats cold in my bones with notes that pinch a morphine drip, which begs the question "why". Why doesn't the cold make me numb, this time? We try to crumble like statues, here, but these statues carry flesh and blood. Their ears hear, their minds think, and their skin feels that iron-jawed bite, that Siberian chill... Snowflakes coat a coffin lid. Here, we speak euphemisms. We celebrate a life and call it a new beginning, but we also weep at the contradictions. As snowfall covers the coffin lid, violins weave a snowflake song with notes that open wounds like surgery, and it begs the question "why". Why do my feet feel nothing while my heart feels everything?