The Cold
Who could have possibly guessed that, at God's behest,
You'd be left stranded, on your soul's quest
To reach the spirit's deepest Antarctica,
The coldest spot on the polar icecap,
Where your essence survives in cryogenic isolation
And your silent, hibernating heart
Beats at a rate of five times per millennium —
Just enough to keep you alive, eon on end,
Until something providential occurs, in Earth's orbiting,
To engender the next epoch of terrestrial existence?
Certainly not you,
You, who always saw yourself as a caring, charitable man
And believed that, one day, perhaps late in life,
You'd discover your true calling, reach the apex of salvation,
Preaching a messianic gospel of compassion.
Who could have possibly guessed that, during your span,
The planet would devour you,
Freeze your heart deep inside your spirit's glacier,
Emitting five beats per millennium,
Beseeching God to rescue your soul, from the cold?
02/26/09 - (2)
|