There is a light that never goes out or so that's what I've been told. Curiously difficult and crushed away just like roses in the snow. White, milky roots the winter keeps her warm and it's not the end of time to be be born, just like roses in the snow. You see, I still hear Mother Midnight calling in my head, golden dreams in a box under the bed just like roses in the snow. And her bluebell scented hands still burned with fire laced up with with ice she called that desire just like roses in the snow. Just like roses in the snow. Blackend spinning wheels and the library kills some roses in the snow.
© WORDS Wendy Rose Watson
