The world has been bone chilling cold of late.
Inspiration stabs lungs with icy blades
so tiny, numerous, frigid as fate;
sharp shooting pain that when held slowly fades.
The whole earth seems to be frozen and still.
Expiration itself halts on my lips
a gelid mass, exhausted breath, which will
augment my beard until fragile and crisp.
The universe, they say, is mostly cold.
It's a vastness where light and warmth are rare.
It is mostly empty, bleak, dark and old,
scattering heat without reason or care.
Yet,
insulating ourselves to stall our fate
will only induce us to suffocate.
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