You Know Nothing

By Thomas L. Winters

You know nothing
about the snowfall
the coming blackness, or
the silver rain bolts spying

You know nothing
of fur coat hearts in limbo
their given breaths now ghosts
their only witnesses
amidst the cracking lonely curbs
and glass walls bearing pictures
promises of summer
imbecile ideas
when a minute feels
like years

You know nothing
of the sunlight sighing
fleeing from eves of snow shreds
sparring above
the untouched ice hills
incessant hectic underlings
on the orders of chaos
jarring, blanching the night air
even the largest
star unseen

You know nothing
about the city
the benches not for sitting
nothing pretty
the people off to work
wax figurines
no smiles to embalm
just fibreglass legs and
nitrogen eyes, the buildings

all dumb destinations
temporary furnaces
a spot to scrape your shoes

You speak of cold, cold
so ungodly cold, but

You know nothing
about dying

 

 

 

About Author: 

Thomas L. Winters is a writer from Ontario currently working on a collection of dark, surrealist poetry. He writes with sharp interest in the corners of space and time that have been criminally swept under the rug. His short story Where Has My Mother Gone? can be read in Volume 1 Issue 2 of Grotesque Quarterly.