The Snow Was Never White

Who walks there,  

Across the cold canvas?  

Who carves paths  

In the stillness of frost?  

They call it white,  

This cloak of silence.  

They call it pure,  

This unbroken veil.  

But do you not see  

The streaks upon its chest,  

The flowers of dusk  

Blooming where teeth have kissed?  

Do not ask it why.  

Do not name it savage.  

Even the wind knows  

The law of the North.  

The snow is not white.  

It is a keeper of shadows,  

A ledger of whispers,  

A mirror that bends  

To cradle the weight of loss.  

And the bear,  

Pale as winter’s breath,  

Wears its crimson badge—  

A story written in hunger,  

A testament to survival.  

Beneath its fur,  

The frost seeps deep,  

Into marrow and memory.  

Each step is a hymn,  

Each breath a prayer  

To the cold gods of necessity.  

Is it villain or victim?  

Does it know the difference,  

Or does it tread, unthinking,  

The unyielding path  

That life has laid bare?  

Look closer,  

Past the blood,  

Past the snow,  

Into the eyes  

Where night lingers.  

There, you will find  

The truth you fear to name—  

That beauty can bite,  

And purity is a myth  

Told by the unscarred.  

So ask yourself,  

As the storm rises  

And the world turns white again:  

Is it the bear you pity,  

Or the part of you  

That still craves innocence?