Frost. A poem.

I live in surreality,
not quite alive, not quite dead.
I wander from one point to the next,
a confused and weary traveller,
conspicuously without intent.

The pleasures of the material
and the impractical align in
tacit disapproval.
I am a wanderer in confusion,
lost in the blizzard of bodies,
grabbing myself for warmth
like a frost-bitten seeker
faced with his last
insurmountable peak.

Someday this journey
will be done, and the last thing
I see, may be the first I ever saw.
As if all that mattered was the
concentric circle I travelled in
and the hoarfrost patina
on my windows,
obscuring what could have been,

and should have been.

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