An advancing life of wayward disorientation (it rhymes!)

snow

making patterns
in the snow
no one told you
where to go.
So here you sit
in blinding light
carving slices
into cold, white

snow

a spinning blade
falls to the ground
people watching all around
sun catches the blade
with a blinding flash
soon to come,
a deathly slash.
a face off born of bitter spite
now ends upon
the cold, white
Red

snow