snow
"Intersection of dissonance and serenity"
drunken poet
Last active:
Mood: insouciant
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snow's Interests
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General |
I’m drawn to imagery that mourns in silence—ghostlike, decaying, the kind that lingers like breath on a tombstone. I collect verses like relics from the dead, each one a soft bruise or a buried scream, echoing with the weight of what I could never say aloud. I reside in the spaces between metaphor and candlelight, between memory and rot—forever searching for meaning in the quiet decomposition of language, in the hollow where beauty and grief intertwine. |
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Music |
I like the sound of shoegaze—where melodies dissolve into the void, distorted and decaying, and vocals linger like forgotten ghosts in a haunted room. It’s like a fractured memory, suspended between sanctuary and purgatory, filled with a nostalgia that twists and suffocates. I’m drawn to the hum of reverb, thick with decay, as if the sound itself is rotting away, leaving only fleeting fragments of lost emotion. Each note drips like fading whispers, lost in time, never fully heard but always felt, a presence you can almost touch but never quite grasp. It’s not just music; it’s a dream on the edge of ruin, where light and shadow bleed into one, and you’re left drowning in the silence between the sounds. |
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snow's Latest Blog Entries [View Blog]
Needlepoints (view more)
Not you (view more)
Fading (view more)
Farvel Beneath the Aurora (view more)
Decay (view more)
snow's Blurbs
About me:
A Beautiful abstraction, ligaments of sin
My bleeding ink stains the silent pages, while my soul rots quietly between the lines you will never read
A figure that lurks, far from reach,
a shadow slipping just past your vision. I am the silent observer, a forgotten specter, writing to tether what slips through the cracks of this fractured life.
I am unmeltable snow—
a whisper of winter clinging to the edges of spring,
untouched by warmth, unfazed by time.
I linger where breath fogs glass,
where longing etches frost patterns into memory.
You walk past me,
never knowing you’ve brushed the edge of my chill,
never feeling how I dissolve
into vapor the moment you almost see me.
I am the hush before confession,
the ache before the scream,
the echo that never quite becomes a voice.
Tethered to nothing but the ache of existing unseen,
I drift—
cold, constant,
unclaimed.
I surround you in the air and fields—
not as weather, but as a presence,
thin as breath,
wide as silence.
I move in the hush between footsteps,
in the stillness that deepens when you're alone.
I gather in the hollow places—
under fence rails, between the ribs of trees,
where no one looks,
where even the wind forgets to reach.
My touch is soft, but I am not gentle—
I am what remains
when all else has moved on.
I am snow, yes—
but more than the fall.
I am the waiting.
The watching.
The slow, quiet claiming
of all things left unwatched.
I drift where light falters,
clinging to the folds of dusk,
filling the world with white until it forgets its color.
And still,
you walk through me as if I’m nothing—
as if the chill on your skin is not me
brushing close,
as if the stillness is not my breath
held beside you.
I do not call out.
I do not leave.
I settle deeper.
I learn the shape of your absence,
and carry it
in every flake
that falls.
Who I'd like to meet:
I’d like to meet the ones who wander through the fog, their thoughts heavy with the scent of decay. The ones who know the taste of misery and still drink deep from its cup, as though they can never get enough of its bitter aftertaste.
I seek those whose eyes have seen too much, whose smiles are crooked, worn thin by a thousand broken dreams. The ones who dance with ghosts, whose skin is kissed by the cold kiss of death but who are still too stubborn to die. I long for the souls who speak in riddles, whose words are like faded ink on parchment, stained with regret.
Let me meet the lost ones, the ones who’ve fallen off the edge of the world and now linger in the shadows, too drunk on their own sorrow to care if they’re ever found.
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