The Snow-Covered Statue

A poem

Wandering in the dead of night, tiny snowflakes land on my hair and snuggle with my thoughts. The fire that burns inside me turns them all into a waterfall — of love and conquest.

Following an inaudible magic tune, my soul leads me to this dimly-lit park. Walking past the shadows of the swings, the small bench is already waiting for me. I smile and look around. No one knows that I am here — or that I smile.

The spark of the lighter is a much-needed cure, in the moments of torturous acquiescence. Here I am, alone with… no thoughts..? I have been deceived, there’s nothing to ponder! Instead I sit in silence — welcoming each shiny white dancer, as a snowy halo grows on my head.

Perhaps I need to move a little, lest people mistake me for a statue. And, if I were one, I would be created by a reclusive, eccentric sculptor whose greatest fear would be the fall — into the need of others.