yet sitting in the sun
the green grass glows.
Beautiful to the world
but look inside,
its heart froze.
In a system that has harvested
from this little blade of grass,
Everything it needs.
The winds, they see what is hollow
And bellow their baritone freeze.
The blade is left to freeze and die
It matters not, it is not chosen.
Does it now know why the bird flies,
as Death’s Head bears down,
whose tongue kisses are frozen?
Can it feel terror rise from its wells,
as the Death’s Head comes calling?
Does it understand
when the wind whispers through daggers,
“You’re not the real you”?
Is it afraid because it feels
it has never been worth anything?
That everything it ever told itself was a lie?
And that the true terror
is dying without having lived?
Does it have time to understand:
That kind of logic is a mask?
That the real fear is fear;
we have lived, every moment we have lived.
And that love is in the moments
That draw your attention away from the Death’s Head.
Yet again there is a warmth
in its hypothermic embrace.
So the blade starts dancing
as the winds come singing.
Did it look around and realize that they are all dancing?
Did it give him strength
to know he was not alone?
That life’s thread is interwoven
between us all,
even the winds?