by Matthew Kenneth Kosak
The air becomes toxic.
A toxic air of intolerability, a precipitation of doubt
Sapping the heat from the permafrost.
And why can’t I simply live? asks the seed [thought], frozen,
Suspended, in non-animata. Not yet knowing the feel of Spring
How the liquid heat feels of life fulfilled , of rivulets coursing
With spontaneity , and arms outstretched, the green skin soaking
The first light in a morning
It wonders if it might- (ever) to such feelings, make a sound, an oratorio (for them)
Is there someone to hear it? silly seed, there is no one of our species with ears, (not yet)
These are still in the darkness of the days
leaving their trace
On the grey smudgy pane
The toxic rain of your desolation, has not finished washing.
© 2013 by Matthew Kenneth Kosak