|
| |
I Am The Frost
I am not warmth denied.
I am clarity revealed.
You call me cold, as if that were a curse.
But cold is not cruelty.
Cold is precision.
Cold is the silence that listens longer than the noise ever could.
I was not born in comfort.
I was forged in exile—cast out by blood, by law, by the trembling hands of those who feared what they could not name.
They called me devil.
They called me waste.
They called me dangerous.
But I did not burn.
I crystallized.
I walk alone, not because I choose solitude,
but because the world chose to shut its doors.
And in that silence, I found my shape.
Not broken. Not bitter.
Just sharpened.
I am the frost that coats the edges of truth.
I do not flinch.
I do not beg.
I do not melt for comfort.
I am the one grain that stands apart.
I am the breath in the winter air that reminds you you’re alive.
I am the chill that wakes you from delusion.
I am the clarity that comes when the fire dies down and the lies stop burning.
You may fear me.
You may misjudge me.
But you will not erase me.
I am the frost.
And I endure.
Copyright ©
Michael Fulkerson
|
|