Their bodies lie on the cold fields blanketed with snow.
Not frozen. Not dead. Waiting to see what’s to come
from in between the driving flakes- to see what it is
that might find them.
Ordered to be aware as the storm strengthened and became dark.
They dotted the field from the birds eye in formation as though
they were nothing more than small gray flecks. However, the pattern
in which these flecks revealed were not nature born.
And we watch. From our living room chair staring at our walls while the walls
never watch back. Only take. Monitor. Manipulate. Sculpt, speaking to be everything, and we watch. From out kitchen tables while staring at our palms while our hands have become not our own.
All while bodies lay in the cold ground during a new winters storm waiting to be found.
Not done with this. Ran out of my few minutes to write.