The Coldest Day of the Year

No preface today, just poetry, in remembrance of Martin Inda.

....................................................


I’m brewing in hate,
The worst of all emotions.
I lose another friend
In such a short term.
I’m tired.

When you lose a friend
That sense of loss
Invades your soul.
Who will be there to tell our stories
When all our friends are gone?

All the images of times spent together
Flood my mind’s eye
In this chilly weather.
It is the coldest day of the year.
Tears warm my cheeks.

Times too hard,
Times too hard are getting to me.
And cold crisp air,
Reminds me of all those friends
Who couldn’t stay.

Who is to tell,
When the time is up?
As the Fates keep spinning the thread,
I wonder,
Who will be next in line for Athropos´s final cut?

....................................................



"The Triumph of Death", Pieter Brueghel The Elder, 1562, Museo del Prado, Madrid.