Why is it that the only talent,
we are all born with
is the innate ability
to cause pain.
It can lie hidden for years,
or allow itself to be coaxed out
by circumstances.
We are all convinced
of our humanity, our goodness,
we tell ourselves that our gods
are on our side.
But didn’t all conquerors and kings
think the same?
The ice upon the ground,
Has traveled up my spine
And filled my ears and mouth.
Waiting for a spring
I know will never come,
I watch as life drips by
Yet cannot make a sound.
I.
I cannot breath nor hear nor speak.
Your words fill my
Mouth and my nose.
Your voice fills my ears.
Trapped beneath this
Weight that buries me
There’s only the fear
You instill
And a rapidly shrinking
Air supply.
II.
It’s only when you have been
Buried by an avalanche
That you begin to know the truth.
White is the color of hell.
Our touch is death.
Even such pure things
as the hopeful blossoms of love,
shrivel beneath our fingers.
If only we knew the art of necromancy,
So we could bring it back.
But would it be the same?
Would we be the same?
inkgirlwords 