Poetry / blissful discard

snowflakes fall
lazily from the grey sky,
oblivious to what waits below.

Semi-frozen mud,
dead, desinegraterd leaves
atop broken sticks.

Is it the end?
Will they all melt away and become water
just to refreeze as part of solid mud and not as themselves?

Or can they be who they are;
as individual pieces of ivory wonder?

And still the snowflakes are discarded.
Thrown or tossed out from and uncaring sky.

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