The snow drifts down from clouds of dull gray,
but they’re not as gray as I feel today.
It’s frigid cold and I can’t feel my thumb,
but it can’t chill me. I’m already numb.
The flakes wander down in an unclear path,
Like me, while struggling through the aftermath.
When they reach the ground, they melt to their end.
There is nothing left for them; don’t pretend.
I too am at the end of my journey.
Do not save me; I don’t want a gurney.