Snow (II)

Out my window the snowflakes dance.

From my tower I watch them fleet,

float,

fly –

on the frosty back of the Western Wind.

Their mistress is fickle and cold, not caring where they blow.

Chaos; wonderful, unchecked, to the ground below.

My mistress is too, as frigid; but I am frozen, slowed.

Left to regret a life owed.

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