Cold Night
As I was walking alone the night asked me if I wanted to listen to its story? Its story about the cold.
I put my hands in my pockets. I saw a web formed on a street light high.
I knew that the night was trying to warn me that the path I’d chosen would see me die alone.
I smirked at the memory of all the years I’d known the night and felt it’s cold.
All the years I’d had to fight just to call a place for us our home.
All the years played out before me, like the taste of a fine stock, the compression hid what I didn’t and just couldn’t want to know.
I asked the night what was before me and should I turn left, right or go home.
It simply said the decisions before me were mine and mine alone.
As I carried on walking the night again asked me if I would like to hear its story, its story about the cold.
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