The World of Myth Magazine

More snow falls
on the heaps already there.
Light and warmth
beds down in dreams.
Reality is constant white-out.
The tiny settlement
is like the scattered eggs
of giants,
with no one or no thing
to ever hatch them.

Signals have been blanketed,
can go no farther
than the next overgrown flake.
Earth is like good weather.
Who knows if there is such a thing.
Not when faces cloud the windows,
and their vision amounts
to one seamless color,
one imperious gesture from above.

They are slowly being buried.
The food, the oxygen, face extinction.
They are doomed to die
a long drawn-out death.
Their lives are like the outside,
withering and incessant.
Only the ending is different.

-