I
My guilty feet don't stop walking,
They crush the snow on which they stand,
My guilty mouth cannot start talking,
It's rush of words turn my tongue to sand,
Now a rock-river, it's crystals chalking.
II
I'd feel too ashamed to look down,
The clinquant desert of silver-white,
Soon, in the dry heat they will drown,
The brilliance will fade into spite,
And our heedlessness will redound.
III
When it is here, it is ivory incandescence,
A blank canvas in it's purest essence,
Then tarnished by our fallacy.
The argentate becomes anthracite,
And we see no difference in it.
It devolves into charcoal overnight,
It is the bloody ink we try to overwrite.
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