Snow, they call him.
Monsoon eyes and dandelion hair.
The world falls with his smile,
Such a rare, tender thing.
Stone cold
With ice's beauty.
Ribcage of steel
And a fleeting flounce
When you mention the childhood he lost.
Drinking sorrows away,
Thigh-deep in dismay.
He sighs a hurricane
Though barely moves at all.
Fixing clocks won't regain the time
He wasted when he lost his mind.
The slightest soft look
Breaks him down inside.
For what eyes can't see
Is what he hides.
He tries to supress
The rushing tide.
Manufactured fortitude;
The war's perfect drone.
Such a godly appearance,
Yet cold as stone.
