the call of the void
on the edge of all that is
gazing into a Stygian expanse
in which nothing can be discerned,
or even conceived for
it is not.
The voice calls, oft weak and distant
the destructive half we confine
for fear of its great and terrible
potential.
Even that soul of boundless cheer
faces the edge and thinks
what if?
The hot flash of shame
makes your self feel like an iron
weight, but thankfully
in due time, all mistakes fade
into the encroaching gray.
When conscripts fear no
more, and their bodies accent
the field, now crimson
mud, children they left behind
will be told of their courage
The long walk to freedom began
before freedom had a name
and those that thirst for righteousness have
been walking since the time of our most
unfamiliar ancestors.
Each person begins to walk
when the dawn breaks on an
otherwise placid day –
The yearning beckons
to rise above their fate.
Contorted, the path bears
no signs, and often circles back
to the beginning.
The walkers wane, legs grow sore and strained.
In such times there is one who walks alone
though now long past weary –
they shine defiant
because of all the journeys in history
this is the one most worth making.
Cold does not see class.
Nor race, religion –
Where you come from,
where you are now
and where you plan to go in the future.
Cold is egalitarian.
Cold is just.
When the trees wake up in a panic
wondering where their rust-hued hair
has gone –
they stand
side by side
with the children, waddling penguins in their parkas
as the school bus is late again.
Unspoken Politics 