The Farm’s Cold Reckoning

The cold gnaws, murmuring in tongues of frost,
A language etched into marrow and thought.
Boots wrestle the earth’s vice-like grip,
Its muddy claws dragging like old regrets.

The wind, a scalpel, carves raw flesh,
Leaving nerves exposed to its biting truth.
Steel clings to hands numbed by endless drill,
A rifle’s weight bends both flesh and spirit,
But never breaks its bond.

The farm looms, silent and severe,
Its barren fields, a tribunal of endurance.
Sweat freezes, etching defiance into furrowed brows,
Eyes lock on a horizon, cruel in its distance.

Shadows sprawl, cloaking unyielding ground,
A shroud for the remnants of rebellion.
With the stench of rust and lingering decay,
The soil drinks deeply of each step’s resistance,
Demanding more than strength—claiming surrender.

Yet the spirit stirs, fractured but defiant,
Rising against despair’s unrelenting weight.
Through torment’s haze, resilience ascends,
A fragile shoot in the frozen expanse.

The farm’s brutal lessons gouge scars unseen,
Not marks of defeat, but survival’s cold testament.
The cold whispers now, familiar and unyielding,
Its voice entwined with resolve’s fading echoes.

Its bite no longer wounds, only carves reminders,
That in ruin’s shadow, endurance takes root.
The frozen ground holds buried stories,
Each a relic of unyielding struggle.

The past cleaves deep, its blade honed by memory,
And the cold remains—unyielding, immutable, home.

Echoes of the Basement

S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Nov 19, 2024
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1858730705687343442?t=TScnWvd6KwoDKwBvUKUOeg&s=19

https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2093