Winter heavy with a promise of honey sweet sleep washes all that stands sentry to this great city, to just another slave to sleep. In slumber undisturbed, this city slips deeper and deeper into a lull, until it feels comfortably dead. Like a senile’s demise. Snow White head comfortably rested on a flower patterned pillow cover.
The covers smell of fabric softener, reminding the rested head of faintly scented memories in flower fields of yesteryear. So, deeper they slip. Until its so comfortable, the memories get stitched to their body, like how monroe was rumoured to get her dresses tailored.
Winter cradles these senile heads in its plump invitation and keeps them there, fondly looking over them, until the vulgarity of buds bursting into flowers disrupts the austerity and it sulkily withdraws, casting longing looks at the senile heads. My city then, will be bathed in parrot green colours and no one will miss winter and its black magic.