Sweet blizzard, you run through my windows an icy chill of freezy blue winter.
My heart is joyed and my balls are shriveled.
I am in another dimension.
Snowmen wave happily with their black button eyes and tophat, extending hellos with a stick arm.
The snow melts and I am summer, scorched melting away.
My eyes droop into watered-down fire, extinguished in a murky puddle.
What would they think? Of all this? My hopeful, joyful mentors of the years past.
I sadden myself in the disappointment which has become my defining characteristic.
Only years before I was invincible, unstoppable, anything – a man on the moon with the fired-up cheering till the day we die
I see a portrait and a man defeated. Immortalized in a self-hatred of spurned, panged, broken, killed, burned all to ashes on a sleigh to the north pole.
The joy. The sense of justice. Only delivered by such a knowledge of this.
Instead I am chased down early, torn down before I can become what must surely be a measured instance of destruction.
All I want is hope. Despair I receive.
I am certain of this. I am certain of the lies. The lies which will become our future as a country, our fall from great heights, the loss of our integrity to the ashes
of a country burned by its own fight to make it to the top, turned inward upon itself, a balloon inverted, deflating, flying through the air to become a wisp of
sparkling twilight upon its ridiculous fate of certain dissolution.
Where thence shall I go?
Europe. The land of something, somewhere, quanta of fullness in packets of uncertain joy, certain to bring a bit of goodness to the table for a round of
bread and butter, a trip to the pub, gastro to the fullness of daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, decades living of finally we have this wonder.
and the memory, such a memory
of the wonderful country which once was
so far behind as simply a sputter of remembrance into the sky
exhaled into the air.