Violet Cream
Violet cream.
A light, velvety lavender.
Such was the soft glow
of that particular night’s sky.
Hints of golden orange
blew in the clouds
because of the street lights.
The snow that covered the ground
and the rooftops of the suburb
reflected the celestial magic.
The road,
though surrounded with all this splendor,
was still black,
still motionless,
still hard.
It blackened any light it touched,
and hid any love it felt,
if it felt any love at all.
It’s hard to tell whether or not
she wanted the snow
or if she needed some time to herself,
or whatever roads think.
All I know is that the snow hasn’t touched her,
and a casual observer like myself
would say that the road
just wants to be left alone;
don’t we all?
What is it about snow
that reminds us how heartbroken we are?
The snow slowly conceals
the secrets that tease a terse soul;
the snow wants me to forget;
but I don’t want to forget.
She’s the road,
and the snow is time;
time isn’t hiding her from me.
Everything around her
is blending in the background,
but she is still hard,
still black,
still there.
A black road
Surrounded by violet cream,
and I,
helpless to change it.
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