Steam rises from his lips like a cigarette tip amidst winter breeze. His eyes frozen solid inside cold hardness and his nose seized in icy chills that slice across his face. And yet he stands there like a burning tip amidst a winter breeze, like a red glow burning hot embers, a red slowly withering away as the silky lines of gray rise into the icy air and still he stands there. Somewhere hidden behind the falling white flakes lies what his eyes have found and thus have died a death frozen not in time but there where everything dies. The winter's knife edge pierces the very fabric of his reality as it slowly slides past cutting with icy precision that which he looks out to. Like a cigarette tip, burning not red embers but for today, just this December away.
Friday, December 19, 2008