He hangs his head, covered in blue cotton,
low, in order for him to symbolize
how he feels. His black and purple button-down
plaid shirt reveals a white tee. Crystallized
fragments find their way to the earth beneath
his maroon sneakers. A chilling wind blows
the fragments, a pure white flurry, to he
who walks solitarily. This man knows
the cold, unfeeling eyes cast upon him;
the bitter, brisk breeze is nothing at all
in comparison. He fled on a whim,
hoping to find solace in his downfall.
Instead, he found himself outside, collapsed,
in the banks of snow on th cold street-sides.
He remembers the frozen mocha frappe
he used to buy daily, a treat inside
a plastic cup. Nothing is sweet about
his current situation. The bitter,
chilling air numbing him, his body out
in the cold, is a curse for white winters.