desire

Every thing turns to white:
a view riddled by cold winds, harsh,
like the thoughts of a snowman standing
alone in a field - children walking
past every morning.
Throbbing and burning underneath
a sky greyed by churning thoughts,
the minds of the young
look for passions that might
let them be immortal.
Images imagined with unending
hope: to be fixed in time,
etched on a page, exorcised
from humanity, freed from stone
as old as the earth that the snow clings to in vain.