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I can feel another snowstorm coming;
one that would shake me until I'm barely moving,
one that would chase me around children playing
while I'm trying to call out.
And even if they'd somehow hear me,
they'd mistake me for an unfinished snowman
and cover and leave me barely breathing
underneath the piercing layers.
So I will tunnel underground
into caves that hold me tight,
far from the chaos of white
that is descending from the sky
like an exodus of foreign lovers
oh it falls like nervous eyeballs
that are spinning all around.
And it's quite easy to convince myself
that I'm not hungry for someone else,
that I have no more prosaic tales to shout
over those frozen seas.
Because, even if someone would hear me
and start to skate across to join me
a dancing child would come and take their hand
and they'd both glide away, laughing.
So I think I'm okay with the cost
of a muted tunnel, bored and lost
inside the vacuum of a paradox
where nothing can mistake me.
But now snow is seeping through
and it is dripping from the roof,
and there are voices that are stepping
on my porcelain head.
But before I watch these walls collapsing
under the weight of all my expectations,
I will close my eyes and dream of kind communion
carrying me away.
And until then, I'll stay down here, contained
in the fleeting space of an unborn page;
I don't know if I'm scared, or if I couldn't care less
about whether I'm closer or further away.