The Perfect Winter Night

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

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