Gliding above, away, today –
like a solitary cloud,
the best of me passes unnoticed
but for the odd ones who see these things,
who remark on things like clouds,
whose eyes fixate on bits of the sky.
They don’t know how else to look,
and keep falling upwards,
out of reach of the severe ones
stumbling the ground in front of their eyes.
Watch them walk right through the falling rain.
Walk and walk, and through the rain,
and walk and fall and stiffen.
Catching their deaths of cold seems about right.
And I wonder if all their lives
are little deaths...
are little deaths of cold.