The Cold

I stand alone from everyone. In the dark morning shadow, cast down by a tree. It's long branches lingering above, reaching out to touch me. I wait for a ride, with my hands down by my side. The breeze comes, singing in the tree. Sweeping its way towards me. Its cold. Yes very infuriatingly cold. It crawls up my skin and sends... little prickles. My flesh freezing to the slightest touch. Unable to move much. I feel bitter, for I hate the cold. It makes me feel old. For I am forced to remember, the old life I once lived. The things I had to give. The words left unsaid. The long ago snowy starry nights, full of porch and street lights. Yes I remember very clearly, those dreadful long and lonely nights. I had my sister to keep me company, but no father. For he would always be mad. Mad at me, mad at to whom or what I might turn out to be. I hated him and with him, I hated the cold. The cold, that now sinks deep within my flesh and into my soal. Dedicated to my Bastered father