The Sound of Snow Falling

Poem about a moment of peace around a snow fall

There is something so deafening about snow falling;
As if when it comes to blanket the world it muffles out the raucous sounds.
The sound is so sweet and inviting, it penetrates your brain.
It forces you to shut out the noise there too.

The world becomes slowly calculating,
And-if you let it-brings a sort of calming peace.
We are so frustrated and wound up, that the greatest blessings
Have become our world's biggest curse.
There is nothing so immediate now that requires death to achieve.
Those of us here have forgotten to stop and listen to the music.

The neon Gods that we pray to,
and pledge our very last breath to,
have twisted our life force outside of our selves;
And the artist, the philosopher, can not even get out of their seat.
For now they are even scared to look at the truth,
As the beauty is gone, almost,
Lost on us.

So what is left for the poet?
Whom stands in the falling slow, enveloped in the silence.
Allowing the smoke to pour into their lungs,
And the coffee to scratch down their throat
Early in the morning.
Watching the sun's fight to rise through the clouds,
And the snow gracefully dance, thread by thread,
Down to blanket the world.

What is left for the poet?
The unabridged truth, and the unseen beauty.
To say all of the things we can not say,
Or would rather burry.

The poet wraps their head around a hundred times everything,
And accepts being alone.
For the poet considers the dazzling greed,
Sucking in the world,
The clean drug addicts,
Sacrificing themselves to the web,
And the dying mother,
With compassionate understanding in her heart;
Smiles, contorts, and understands.
The poet reports, releases.

What is left for the poet?
Everything.
Everything in the deafening sound of snow falling.
The world is lost on the poet and the poet is lost on the world.
Given this perspective, the poet is able to see through the bullshit
That manifests around the fake addict society that is our world.
The poet understands it all
Manupliates it,
Takes on the role of the Philosopher and gets up from their chair.
Watches the world dangle on a string, hopeless and scared.
The poet offers comforting words, at the price of their soul,
While tearing through the unchecked lies of the neon gods.


Everything is at the poet's fingertips.
The poet prescribes to a dying art,
For the neon gods are trying to destroy their truth as well.
Trying to glue them to the chair,
Distort their views, and art.
If the poet refuses?
Refuses to give in to this manipulation by the neon gods?
Then the poet is lost, and found.
Lost within the world they exist in,
Lost to only their words,
Their rhymes,
Their phrases.
Found by them as well.

It is in the deafening sound of snow falling,
And blanketing the earth,
That the world has turned into a curse,
Instead of a blessing,
That the poet is recognized,
And exalted.
Where the philosopher and the artiest,
Once again find themselves.
For in the snow globe of beauty
Truth is restored.