Frost encumbered

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

or survive.

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?