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White

I step outside
The loving embrace of my cabin
Into an all-encompassing freezer
At the end of the world.
My skin freezes and flakes off
Or it would,
Were it not for my excessive layers.
Five at last count.
Maybe more.
The snow clings to my ankles
As I trudge through the bodies of their fallen comrades
Slain in the never-ending battle against warmth.
The white encloses me
Surrounds me
Nothing but white noise in every direction.
The worst of it is the silence;
Unrelenting
Oppressive
It drives me to prose
To poetic evaluation of the nothingness.
The incredible nothingness.
It makes me want to scream
To cry out into the ivory hurricane
To make any noise at all
Just so I know that I didn’t die in my sleep
That I am not trapped in a special sort of hell
For people who never looked up to the heavens
Never pondered the validity or purpose of their existence
Forced into existential deliberation for eternity.
And then the door opens,
For I have returned
Firewood in hand.
The storm howls behind me
Demanding the return of its child
And I reply with a less than appropriate gesture
Daring it to take him back.
I should probably stop doing that.





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