It’s still snowing … only just … little flakes that fall on the curve of the wind that take a while to reach the white ground in the golden illumination of a standard, British, navy street-lamp.

It’s still snowing … less than just … the occasional flake that falls in the glow of the light and drifts on the breeze, like a feather, to the shining, shimmering, freezing floor of these good Ole days.

It’s still snowing … in the night … in the light of that brilliant, orange, glooming globe, and I watch as the white dies to a darker shade of grey – vertically drifting towards oblivion.

It’s still snowing … to the right … of my green eyes, my window, those silver-grey shooting stars, and I can’t help but think that if you were here … you’d understand.

It’s still snowing … shooting stars … across my current, depressive mentality … but who is God?
And why must I pray to him so religiously, when all I can give is pain and regret, and all I get

In return is such brutality?