Snow Burries Our Vehicles

Storms of ice flutter in and out of memory

The continuum never hesitates;

It breathes in our misery, rather like

energy for it's rushed convalescence.

The disparity between form

and Soul deceives those who look only to possess...

The madness continues...

Fingers numb in the partial clearing of ice

from the windshield;

It hardly matters that we run blind

into the very Gates of Hell because

the tank is empty and

wherever these petrol fumes take us

must be 'fate.'

In our depravity, corrupt and malicious,

God is coerced to plunge

through a tundra wind (sent to humble our high-fashioned Bodies),

to clear the accumulated ice from your Car,

which Fate - and the weather man-

had the inhuman audacity to portend.