The Snow Is Red

I step outside and the snow is red.

I step outside and I do not see the smiling faces, the laughing children, or the wealthy men.

I step outside where sunlight used to cup my cheek and warm my heart.

Where papa took his cigarette and drew thoughts with the smoke.

I step outside where the streets were freedom, a walk of people who were alike.

I step outside and the snow is red.

I step outside and the sun no longer warms my heart.

I step outside and darkness lingers.

But not the kind that is comforted by the moon.

Or beautied by the stars.

The kind that is tainted by death.

The kind that suspends in time with fragments of innocents in its wake.

I step outside and the snow is red.

It seeps into my skin.

It sticks to my shoe.

And I shiver.

I shiver because the snow is red.

And crimson isn’t my favourite colour.

I step outside and there are bodies at my door.

And I cry.

I cry because the snow is red.

It's red.

It's red.

It's red.

Red.

With lifeless forms and I don’t know their names.

I don’t know their names, but they live on my front porch.

Their hands outstretched as their last plea for life trickles from their fingertips.

I step outside and I don’t know their names.

I don’t know their names.

But I know them.

I know them.

Because the snow is red.

And they’re there.

And they’re not.

And the snow

Is

Red