My legs are dead. It takes the supreme effort of most every other part of me to drive them through the snowy terrain. The ground won't make up its mind as it frequently changes from slosh, to ice, and sometimes into a lovely, fluffy blanket of absolute perfection. I want to stop and fling myself into its sparkles, but there's time for that later.
I can't breathe, I choke every time I try. My face is frozen but my lungs are on fire. My hair is ice.
But I've never felt so alive.
Author note//
Hello. I haven't posted anything on here in like a year. I just found this from awhile ago, and I kind of like it.
YOU ARE READING
From My Mind to Yours (2016)
Poetry"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty". (Edgar Allen Poe)
