Bleached November

The colors of a bleached November

In an abandoned parking lot

Washed away against a scarlet sunset.

The snow drifted gently, the wind whistled,

Softly rocking the earth to sleep,

And the day was burning out

Against a bleached, white landscape,

The sound of a song echoed for miles out there,

With the open sky and crisp ice and snow.

The beauty of the world silenced me,

And it seemed that the snow muffled everything.

There was a peaceful stillness in the air.

Winter had fallen,

And the cold had starched the world,

Taken the freedom of daisies and greens

And replaced it with the bitter loving of ice.

I don’t believe in God.

I believe in people’s inner demons,

And I believe in love.

I believe in music and in ice,

And I believe that demons,

Love, music, and ice make life.

And that the ice makes us realize

What we need when it starves us out.

We have an insatiable thirst for love

That is never quenched.

Music is the sound of the soul,

And demons are the evil inside.

And I believe that everything was hanging there,

In that one moment of crimson sky

And white ice and song and soul

And a thousand new beginnings

At the end of the night.

And still in my memory,

The crimson hangs above the snow

Like blood on an angel’s wing.

 

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