158 Reads 11 Votes 1 Part Story
Tristan H. Globes By Homer_ Completed

White, white all around

stagnant in the sky

and condensed on the ground

Where cold particles eat the horizon

stinging my face

and melting away the warmth as I stand here

staring at a frame

thinking about the tropical days 

that have come to pass

About the husky smell of purple orchids 

growing from the rotting compost

and the glitchy reverberation of birds 

chirping and squawking for food and company 

About the plethora of bright green, blue, and red

clustered with orange, pink, and yellow

and the fresh droplets of sunlight, damp with moisture 

from frigid monsoons

But most of all I think about 

the days and nights vacationing

with my family

leading a normal life 

Tears trickle down my cheeks 

leaving behind a trail of icicles

as I remember those who have have died in the white

and those who might still be alive 

as lost as I am

The only reminder I have from those days 

is a crudely constructed frame that I made from

the fuselage caught in the foliage