Lipstick in the Snow

One of the fugitives of the snow.
The wheels of the miller are spinning around while the ground frizzes to the sky
and you…you move through this snow.
You have given your way to the dress.
A black dress…. lurking in the shadows of the augmented white moon.
Where the sky meets the ground, where the ghouls howl to the clouds.
Where the voice you tend to swallow begs for silence where the sun shines no more.
Let the voice in the window curse the crystal where it stands.
All the brittle things you hold will break with the lack of attention.
Lipstick in black sheets.
A burned circle in the lips.
A white bed with a big wild idea laying open for an icy whisper wrapping cursed flames.