The Cold

A Poem

There is a sound between the trees, and it is like the boiling cold. The Grey red brown skin of the earth, plays up the day, dropping in and out of my eyesight. I rotate between sky and earth, and the sky and the earth. Noticing details that whisper secrets of greater secrets, in some unknown language. I collide daily with my own being, with the earth, and with this constant becoming. Always we are becoming what we want, and least want to be. Our time on this earth is like resistance, and death is just a window that you can pass through at any time. That is what guides our lives. I shake myself from sleep violently each morning, and confront the day. The world grows more distant from my sight with each passing minute. Collect yourself as I collect myself, listening to the boiling cold that passes between the trees.