By Edson Manuel
Our annual ninety-two day cold war is upon us.
The winter paints shades of grey, black and white
A creation that may distract, twist and distort our intellect.
—
For some, it’s just another season, but for others,
the dullness of its art, affects their interior emotions,
and it shrinks them where the sun don’t shine.
—
It manipulates and dictates the disorder of our mourning
The battlefield in vision is of frozen bodies, vehicles and plants
Their armour worn: woollen gloves, beanies, trench coats, double socks, scarves and sweat pants
—
Fever pitched, affected sneezes and coughs
Breath of white, born from warm, black lungs
They are hospitalised and resting among forts made of pillows and blankets.
—
The veterans dread the echoes of the uncoordinated rhythm and blues
As fresh minds slip then drown in puddles,
and are riddled by the profound uncertainty and despair.
—
They soak in rays and brightness and weather kindness for the length of an upcoming birth
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks and months fly by
For the preparations of the brainwashing breeze that begins in June.
