Dec 1, 2021

the children of death

--

Inside of this body, it is always winter, 

And in this mind, it is always cold. 

Your eyes are in here, too, looking out 

At the cruel shapes of a life, 

Blurred and dreary. Perfect. 

In the stillness of a late afternoon 

The pines cast long shadows. 

We are the children of death 

And the parents of life. 

Walking through the gray town 

No one speaks to us, 

And we speak to no one. 

Do we mind? No. 

Does time embrace us? No.

It is our place to embrace time. 

We are left holding out 

Our tired and empty arms. 

Goodbye.

-jobe

No comments:

Post a Comment