A flurry of forbidden white,
Falling to the ground from way up high,
Shimmering with its own light,
Despite the cloudy and sunless sky.
The glass door that separates the warm from the cold,
The life from the death,
And only those so bold,
Will visit lethe.
But to young eyes,
It is anything but,
A blissful winterly guise,
That lifts one out of their rut.
Yet this beauty is two-faced,
Like a Siren's allure,
It's poison-laced,
And there is no cure.