as through the eyes of someone from another planet unfamiliar with our culture/objects/emotions.
Five
Day Martian Forecast
What is this thing they
call snow?
I’ve heard stories;
they’ve piqued
my interest…
Cold, wet feathers,
soft and delicate,
Tumbling down from
overcast skies
In a gently winding freefalling
dance
To melt upon raw, rosy cheeks…
It sounds like an
impossible dream.
All I ever know are the
Martian wastes;
A barren, desert, sepia
tone hell
Of blowing, whipping,
ripping sand.
Harshly chafing, windy
shards;
Course, dry, progenitor
of glass,
Showering me in granulated
torment…
I long for an eternal December,
A scene out of my
crisp, white fantasies…
To lie upon a soothing
mattress
Of thick, pearly fluff
And let those damned Martian deserts
Seep forever from my soul.
