Photo by: Steven Hausler / Reuters
Something is lost in the
delivery:
cold words.
Unresolved cadence of
distant trains whistling;
the world becomes real when we step
outside, the searing
pitch
tugs at skin,
sketches
eardrum
Cold words cannot make me cower
unintelligibly on the
carpeted floor,
huddled in strange
depressive ecstasy
But it is the beginning
of that,
the start of something, of
everything;
little muddy footprints on the
Colorado snow
plains,
insignificant, leading
nowhere, leading
somewhere
