I am cold.
I am shivering in this place,
Because it's cold here.
The ground is empty,
No feeling, no light.
Just the cold.
There are no walls,
But miles upon miles of roots the size of dressers
And as thick as bodies
Trapping you in one spot
Because they are impossible to climb over.
But you cannot see them.
You cannot see the roots,
Or the lifeless ground,
Or your hands in front of your face
Because it is dark here.
It is darker here than anywhere else in the world,
But still you can feel the presence of the things near you.
You can see them without your eyes,
Because you can feel their light.
The roots have a feeling,
A dark and twisted feeling full of pain,
But it is still there.
The air has a feeling of entrapment,
The clothes on your body a feeling of fatigue.
Only the ground is empty.
You can only feel its cold surface with your hands.
You can feel that it's empty.
Cold.
Dark but lighter than all the other things in this place.
It is the essence of the reason I am here,
The reason anyone who comes here is here.
It is the part of this place that scares you,
Because it is the part of this place that doesn't feel.
And you want to feel.
But when all you can feel is this cold, empty ground
In this dark, painful place,
Then you start to become it.
The cold of the ground slowly seeps into the bodies of the people in this place,
This place,
This place of cold.
This place is cold.
This place is painful.
But, if only I could see it,
I know this place would be beautiful.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryAll of our colors are different, and mine are still lost to oblivion. You can watch me try to find them.
