The Bottom Shelf Review

It is cold.

The blustery wind has

forced inside your lungs,

obstructing your every breath.

 

You walk faster,

the cold intensifies.

You slow down,

the cold lingers

on your frozen fingers

and tingling ears.

 

Your every step is laced

with pain

of a cold that offers no kindness.

 

It is cold.

The gust of frigid air

is a cruel punishment.

 

You shrug your shoulders

and clench your hands tightly

inside your shallow jacket pockets.

 

Your neck aches

from slouching and the hair

on your covered arms and covered legs

bristles upright.

 

The muscles in your chest and back

twinge

from the tightened posture you hope

will conserve precious body heat.

 

Your toes and fingers are stark white,

icy to the touch.

 

It is cold.

The bitter sting

of the Northeast wind has

frozen your heart.

 

The sunny spark

within your core

has frozen over

like the parking lot pavement.

 

Now a void fills the space

where passion and purpose once lived.

 

Icy tears fall down your icy cheek,

failing to thaw your frozen soul.

It is cold.