I’ve lost
What words remain
In this dull
And somber white
Which builds
Through raw
Indifference
My vague
Yet growing chill

That speaks
Like stoic snow
With a blank
Yet real expression
Of such bare
Though humble
Willingness
To confess
These sudden flakes

As a storm
Not wholly armed
By those winds
And glacial padding
Which lord
Their cold
Disinterest
Over phrases
Nearly warm

Believing
Fires wane
Where this wood
Is always dampest
For the time
Our phrases
Stumble
Among chances
Dark as night

Where stars
And other light
Find God
Between each
Sentence
Like truths
From barest branches
Or a meaning
Meant to last

When our fear
And broken wish
Of that lush
But bitter landscape
Falls softly
On this passage
While the deer
Escape
Its wrath

Chasing
Empty paths
Pursuing dreams
Unwritten
As each poet
Faults
Their maker
For losing hope
Beneath

Shoveling
What is said
Like digging
For some answer
During winters
Uninspired
With a whimper
Old
And weak.

Those tracks
Cannot be seen
As the air
Blows ice
Unwilling,

No soul
Or frigid whisper
Can find
My voice
That’s stale.

– J. Pigno