All This Cold

The night blows cold along
The edge of where so many go
To find escape from everything
That life’s become, including
Wearisome escapes, themselves

Let he or she who knows the truth
Speak now; or meditate upon
The face of all that’s lost,
And bent, and failing in
Its purpose –

The colors melt into
The darkened winter of
Misunderstanding, and
This runway casts no life that
Suits my purpose

To know, to see, to seek
The warmth so many never find;
To know and shine the one light
Out for all and any
Lost along the edge
Of all this cold

Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

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