Light
travels differently
at -40°.
Cleaner,
clearer,
exposed in stark relief,
standing with no comfort.
Everything extraneous
is obvious.
The wasted and the derelict
freeze quickly
and are gone.
The wounded
and the sorrowful
find shelter
and the streets are bare.
Every sound is unlwelcome,
except for the song
sung by the failing.
All things contract,
constrict and vilify
when it’s this cold;
except the light.
Never been brighter,
or truer.
Things far away seem closer,
as if the illusion of distance, too
has huddled tightly within itself
for warmth.
Only truth strides boldly
down the empty streets,
singing a song
to assuage old guilt
and old failures.
Saying;
“A New Year comes.
Time to distain old promises
and invigorate the soul
with new worlds to behold!”
Voice like winter wind.
Words of frostbite
and ice fog.
Truth dances away
along icy, abandoned streets
under a bare light,
shining,
promising resurrection.
But not today,
because the truth is;
today,
we are busy with dying.
HG – 2017
