Petals Of Pain

Wilting petals of pain fall from icy branches, while deer frolic under the flickering amber porch lights, glowing on fresh powder accumulating in the coldest of nights. I grab my throw resting in front of the roaring fireplace, wrap it around my aching shoulders, and sit by the frosted window panes, sipping just one more glass of whiskey. I feel the smooth burn run down my scorched esophagus. It will be dawn soon, yet sleep eludes my weary bones. I reach for my phone but remember no one will answer, so I chat with my fleeting shadows as the weight of loneliness presses heavier than usual. The snow comes in waves now, crystal clear, then everything whites out, reminding me how invisible life can become. Still nursing that glass of whiskey, I turn on the radio—nothing but static. So, I drift away into intoxicated delusions, playing tricks with my sanity. Cabin fever sets in, as this perpetual arctic despair becomes my lacrimosa.