Lost in the Snowstorm

Lost in the Snowstorm

Whispers of white devour the earth,

soft and fierce all at once,

a thousand tiny knives

carving cold into my skin.

The wind, a banshee,

screams through the hollow spaces,

filling the world with a sound

that feels like silence.

Trees loom like specters,

their arms heavy with frost,

reaching out,

but never touching.

I stumble forward,

footsteps swallowed by the storm,

erased as though I was never here.

Am I moving at all?

The sky has no edges.

It bleeds into the ground,

the world reduced to a single

shifting shade of white.

I am nowhere,

and yet everywhere.

For a moment,

I think I see a light—

a flicker of warmth through the cold veil—

but it’s gone

before I can catch it.

The snow tightens its grip,

my breaths shallow,

the world slipping into the haze of frost and fear.

But then,

a voice, muffled,

cuts through the storm—

a sound of hope.

The light returns, brighter now,

steady and real.

Hands reach for mine,

strong, warm, pulling me from the edge

of endless white.

Wrapped in blankets,

voices wrap around me too,

soft and human,

the storm fades,

leaving only the memory

of what it tried to take.

And here, in the glow of rescue,

I learn again

what it means to feel the warmth

of being found.