by mejwellman
The dirt from my shoes is crumbling on the ground.
Old dusty powder of a life giving source.
I feel miniscule, glancing at the pine trees towering above me.
It is a wonder, in this stagnant world, that they remain green.
My hair clings to my face fearing the cold and finding solace next to my pink sickly cheeks.
I could be drawn to the thick comforting warmth of my home, but cold isolation matches my internal desire.