I see you, standing there.
There, on the corner of the street.
Your scarf over your nose,
A makeshift barrier to the merciless, icy gale that whips around us all,
Tearing papers from our hands,
Wrenching tears into our eyes.
I see you standing there.
There, on the corner of the street.
I see your coat with collar turned up,
I see your trousers stuffed into your boots,
I see your begloved hands plunged deep into your pockets.
But I don't see the fear behind your eyes.
I see you standing there.
There, on the corner of the street.
I see you, looking just like the rest of us,
As we rush hither and thither,
Hunting for last-minute bargains,
Hurrying to escape the brewing storm.
But you're not like most of us, are you?
You don't see us whizzing past, because you're too preoccupied.
You don't feel the cold, because you already feel numb inside.
You don't wait in anticipation for the "big day".
Oh no, not you.
You wait for it in fear.
I see you, standing there.
There, on the corner of the street.
And all of us, sparing you but a glance as we hustle by
Miss the note of urgency hidden in your eye.
YOU ARE READING
Into the Depths of Despair
Poetry"I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind. At these times, I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and...
