I often feel as if I was drifting across a cold ocean on the night of the new moon.
It was the end of it all. Ice was melting everywhere around
in the ways of ancient ships. These were sheer empty.
I suppose they carried my thoughts, and sometimes they would crash against my numb body making me wonder “or is it that is me the vessel of the gods?”
There weren’t any trees; there weren’t any clouds; the earth was so long away and only left for me was the sky.
Still, the night light was brighter; not even the long-gone middays spent under the sun could compare. Stars shone brightly. And the ice shards turned on theirs also.
As above, so below.
It was so cold my fur shone white, and soon the moon mimicked:
she was a shining silver-like thread; mine a blazing ball of fur.
The cold was no longer scorching; loneliness was no longer a word: I was merely there within the luminous (not ominous) night.