Siloed

Pools of untouched snow cover the black roads. The streetlights are candles for the wordless town, the traffic slowing down. When the fog is so thick I can barely make out what's in front of me, except the silhouette of the unmoving trees, I am isolated from the lake, isolated from reality.

I've never wanted to grow old, in a clear world. Everything feels cold. My teardrops leave me like heartbeats, like disconnected snow in the wilderness, with certitude. I get lost in sentimental ballads and rise like a cake, but I can't translate the hieroglyphics of an ancient script buried in time. Unwinding.

The sky has changed its colour. The paint has dried. I've seen through the telescope and seen things I'd struggle to describe. The naked view of the mountain, the same destruction of a thinning body. At arm's length I catch falling stars, the falling dust. I see crashes from the side of my eye, and I turn to them, to the ruined homes of false gods, but they belie one's true intentions, and the darkness comes before the light. When I reach out to touch the face, it feels so real but I know it's a dream. I've been here before, been penetrated by the cold walls of a lie. Staring out at the ripples on the water flowing like a dress. The swans recognise me like I recognise the white sun shining through the clouds into my mouth, we've come to know each other.