Gouged

The snow falls like whispers
from a cold, uncaring god
that feeds upon our fear
not adoration

ancient friends and fallen graces
can’t turn to plastic
fast enough
consumed by the creed
of ungratified greed
while dodging recognition
maneuvering through the maze

we expect things to be
the price that they’re marked
but they always seem to ring up high
so check your receipt

the mournful sound
of wind through naked trees
distracts you from the sting
as crystals crash
and cover up the ruts.