The snow fell,
an army of old men with wings.
And as they piled,
I imagined them penned,
like the old man that
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
had penned into my head—
alone and betrayed,
pissed on by drunks,
trampled by chickens and men,
the likes of myself,
until the absolute white of their wings
became grey
with the dust and the grime
of the wind and the world.
I knew then,
that on various days,
in various hours,
and in various moods,
the beauties of life
would take to the air,
one by one,
and make leave
of this place.
As always, thank you for reading.