Maybe it’s better
rushing down this icy path
at increasing speeds: faster
faster, collecting snow,
at growing alacrity
ever closer to some blinding terminus
with the glare and the ice pellets
pelting and causing no end
of disturbing dissonance.

Perhaps this fate
is preferred to the alternative
of stationary and still
waiting at a crawl in the cold
for the front to creep through
every inch into entrails
and recognize every part until
there is nothing within,
without or wherever
that isn’t ice.

The world is frozen.
The world will end
and you will end with it.
The choice of how is yours,
but speed,
speed is the better one, surely.

About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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