The Cold

I think 
upon the state of the world and 
I feel empty.

I hear a flock of birds
  slowly drift away like a
   h o w l i n g  c l o u d  t u r n e d 
     to a squealing wheel
       fading down a long, straight road.

I don't long for their songs.

I sit, still
and content to never be un-still
again.

Frozen, as my fire slowly withdraws
and its heat
disappears.

Where does it go? I wonder.

It doesn't feel like it, but
the flame always comes back.