You walk into the flurries.
Every morning it's dark,
and every time you
glimpse at the sky, you see it
again.

The way that it is always
so thick. You drown it out
or drown it in,
as long as the day is done;

Sigh, trip, and fall into the next one
wasting your moments planning your moments
Until something ignites you,
and the greys of your day
burn like the desperate shout for someone to only
walk by and touch their skin.

What do you expect, burying all the burning things?
Don't they deserve to wail that you have forgotten?