Sad Poem: Thin Ice

 

the cold has its own voice. a curious mistress with a backward smile.

our atoms dance inside our skin. manic acrobats in damaged masks.

we are the sum and the integer. withered actors on stages made of why.

the winter has its own language. all heavy stones in small pockets.

ripe with temporary choices that become permanent.

we're feathers on the ground. desperate to touch the wind again.

we are passengers in time's relentless machine.

looking out the window at a world

that is always just out of reach.