they disappoint,
                    words being worthless
to them,
        frozen buds being more brittle.
half-formed flakes
                          of gray snow
their stillborn element,
                                    isolated drippings
of sullen feelings
                      their forgotten truth,
callous myths
                 their lasting glory.
withered moss on my mind,
                                 they coat its hardness
with a softening touch
                              of death.