• A snowy flake upon my heart
    lying, waiting for companions
    slowly growing in repulsion
    of my unfamiliar ways.
    Others growing swiftly 'round it,
    jeering at my awkward slowness
    attempting to brush them off;
    only giving them more reason
    to stay.
    Softly, swiftly, turning grey.
    There's no one to whom I may pray.