Cold

There is dust and there is us

And they are the same.

Our bones are ash, our muscles soil

that greets the roots of an impossible tree.

I live only in the backs of other people’s minds now,

and not always fondly.

I wish there was more to say for a life such as mine,

but I can speak no more.

Time is cold, a waiting that shivers and writhes

like fingers over flame.

I am not ready for the end

I did not do enough, I did too much.

This is the path of the good-intentioned.

The ones whose stories fade with passing days

and whose suffering is a woe best unthought of.

I do not hold things like regret, but I wish Them to know

what agony it is to be human.

To wake and walk in a world of such vast

and unconquerable shadows.

My hollow cheeks are stung with tears, my wishes fallen

to the wind that whips past ears no longer pricked to listen.

I ache not for lost time, but for a different one

An age in which I could’ve been the best of myself.

We lost sight of the Good inside all the Greed,

forgot to look past green pastures to the skies beyond.

I got lost, too,

and now the Doors open to greet me.

I am not ready to be an ending

I did too much, I did not do enough.

This is the path of the damned.

I imagined Hell to be an insufferable heat,

scorching and unrelenting flames.

It is Cold here

And it is only me.