Bahamut

June 10, 2013

Absolute, petrifying cold
Penetrates through layers
Of carefully prepared
Scarves and jackets, such
That one might feel the
Frigid touch of each
Individual snowflake
Against their bare skin.
This winter, there seems
To be only one who is
Wholly unaffected:
The hermit in the park.

The few who see him
Pretend they haven’t, or
Quickly look elsewhere in
A vain attempt to remain
Outside his tiny world.
He sits serenely, eyes shut,
Upon a bench. Each deep
Breath seems to inhale
The whole atmosphere
At once. He sighs.

There are seven brightly
Plumaged canaries nearby,
Never singing, but simply
Watching over him. They
Flutter their wings to shake
The snow away, and move
From branch to branch in
The oak tree above him.

One dramatic flurry takes
Advantage of the silence,
Blanketing the area in yet
Another layer of white dust.
In that instant, the man is
No more, swept off into
A universe we will
Never be privy to.

MSBQ

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