it’s white outside
the seasons turn
and i cannot feel the turn under my feet
but my mind incessantly pounds
underneath its weight
desperately trying to protect the chambers of my heart

people walk
as if it’s not cold outside
but their hands are in their pockets
and betray their masks
pockets hold a universe of secrets
and very few open them and look inside
to see if they are lost
or if they’re hiding
often times, most times,
i search for my pockets in public places

-marchesa