Fools Are Noted

I am the winter
Colder than a century’s past
Of scarves and shivers.

The winter that
With each death, like the trees,
Made ending more familiar
With each death, like the heat of a heart
Yet so much more painful
With each death, like the possibility of a new spring.

The winter that suffocated Miss Plath,
The winter that froze all happiness.

I am the ticking clock
Never ending and an omen
For eternity and existentialism.

The clock that
With each jolt, like a heartbeat,
Reminds you that time is running out
With each jolt, like a sand timer,
And a grave is closer by every step
With each jolt, blowing away.

The clock that cannot be turned,
The clock that never dies, unlike you.