Your words:
A series of bitter snowflakes
Whipping past me,
Pricking my bare skin,
Stinging slightly,
Yet each time I become number
Than the last.

My thoughts:
Pounding upon my mind as
Insistently as the nighttime chorus
Of crickets outside my window.
To attempt to ignore them
Merely invites them in.
The racket reaches a crescendo
That only I can hear,
But never decipher.

This masterful evasion of peace.

How is it
The stranger inside my head
with such potent words
carries so much power?

Or is it me?
How am I to know?

Sleep:
Such a fruitless attempt at escape,
Yet it is difficult
To not yearn for its
Permanence.