Inimical

For which reasons I allow myself to ascertain,

I do not know. I allow petty prospects take over again,

My hand wrist-deep in winter snow.

Surely once before is enough to make me maintain,

That it is too much. It is the broken records' refrain,

I'm too cold to feel the frigid touch.

Pretty soon only what's left from the last time will remain,

Though the distinction weary. Perhaps too tired from trying to sustain,

The chill and its burn become bleary.

I should have guessed, but instead confessed what I chose to retain,

My keepsake. My memory of predilection intrinsically abberant and arcane,

My star-crossed snowflake.