A fragrance gone, faded,
Like the dewy scent on morning grass
As the sun lifts.
The day stirs,
A blistering break of dawn;
The mountains, blackened, bow down;
Watchful beings on thrones of stone.
I tread,
Bitterly cold – no jacket.
Hands blue,
Blotchy – no food.
Fuel
Air empty
Soulful;
An echoed wood of forest;
The dampness.
I try to rearrange the things,
Tramp along the dirt.
I like the cold, the morning,
Stillness.
The world is mine;
Untouched by man.
Undiscovered.
I like the cold;
A slap, a burn.
To remind me of who I am in turn.