Gravitation and gratification, ruled their bodies
like pendulums they swung, back and forth
The lines of the city were masters of their souls.
The lines of the city were the creators of their homes.
Redundancy, hypocrisy, autonomy
‘What’s mine is yours, Honey!’
They lied to one another.
‘Life is good,’ they lied to themselves.
The darkness in which the city now lived
harboured, haggard, almost killed
the joy of the sun and the magic of the soul.
Their warm bodies were their only familiar home.
Every sunset pulled on their heartstrings
for every sunrise meant another day had begun.
She grew older and he grew sadder.
An empty nursery and elegant mourning.
At the very end came the snow, radiant and pure
a blanket of white upon the darkness below
with it the light of a new day, warming hearts with its cold,
whispering new beginnings into the lost and forlorn.
She awoke to a new world that morning. A pure world. At least on the surface. While she lay in the comfort of her dreams, the snow had tucked the city in a blanket of white. As she looked out the window she saw that her big city had finally become the snowy English town she had always dreamt of. With it’s white rooftops, salted trees and cushioned roads. After months of slowly losing the magic of the city, it was rich and luscious around her again. She ran down and soaked it all in. She touched the snow on the floor that turned to ice as her warm hands gripped it tight. She could feel it inside her. Pure happiness.
But the sky slowly lost its light the snowfall began to stagger and soon its crystals stopped plunging from above. As the invisible sun began to set, the snow began to melt and the magic slowly weakened.
She closed her eyes, felt the last of the snow on her face and held on to the magic of the moment. For fear that, if she kept her eyes open for too long, the magic might disappear and it would all be just tedious snow like it was for the Londoners bustling around her. That afternoon, as darkness took over the city the purity washed away with the rain as though it had never been there in the first place.
Wells Street Journal 