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Writing

White pages of a blizzard with thick, black ink swooping horizontally, telling tales of
Righteous people that appear and vanish in the very same thought. The deep black swirls threatening to swallow all up.
Ideas and feelings all curling down the porcelain pages, intended to be preserved forever.
Turned over, secrets are kept safe, but are easily revealed. Not much to keep the tiny scribbles from being read.
Incineration could be an option. The snow can quickly catch with the slightest heat.
Nothing, other than utter destruction, can protect the scraggles from being seen. Such a tragedy, isn't it?
Gargling up the whispers inside your head, the pitch black bubbling up and down the pale page.



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