By: Yezekiel Williams
A subzero winter
with no snow
bleached birds trace
halos over my head,
replacing the cotton of
the cerulean sky.
The wind has already
beckoned you to flee,
I lie awake, pale and
paralyzed in a culvert,
so glacial and slow moving,
preserving my nerves.
A golden globe in the
flock smears away,
cygnets on the ground with
feathers falling slowly after,
drifting gently down the
stream, pitiful company.
Life was once a
beautiful dream...
Why am I so cold?
