By Adam J. Pearson
In the silence of a cold afternoon,
Tears flow out, like crystal rivers,
From pained eyes.
A boy nurses a rifted heart,
As errors drift, like specters,
Through his mind.
Over the aching boy,
The black world looms,
Like a desolate wasteland.
But outside his window,
Light white snowflakes drift,
Peaceful, graceful and aloof.
Squirrels scurry under his porch;
Life pulses as the world sweeps out
Vast arcs through great black space.
Were he outside, his tears would be
Indistinguishable from the snow,
Water within and water without.
Above him, bright white light
Insinuates itself into his room
Through cracks between the blinds.
Within him, a great love burns
Beneath a sorrowful ocean,
Like strong volcanic heat beneath the sea.
But he does not see the snowflakes.
He sees only himself,
And everything twists into her face.
He hides his own beneath the pillow,
And darkness floods out the great white light;
His seething pain consumes the universe in its jaws.
But the universe refuses to be eaten,
And like white light through the blinds,
Life breaks through his private cares.
The boy weeps, ensconced in his pain,
As ten million galaxies blaze beyond him,
And on a tiny Earth, fall tears and snowflakes.