When Senses Collide

Rain and wind defend the bells and the crickets in the midst of cannons;
Pitter-patter, whir, hiss, chime, chirp, boom.
Fresh air mingles with that acrid burning
And drenched to the bone, the merciless fingers of cold
find the chink in our armor.
Cold, exorbitantly cold
So cold we can't feel the cold,
the word loses its meaning,
just a word,
just a sound, like all the others
Till it becomes warmth.
Lost, discouraged, betrayed
yet awed, elated, empowered
from that which we call
Fearless nostalgia.
That's all life is, really
A continuum of contradictions.

C.S.