Just Starvation

In murky October’s morning
The fog appears to be
Sleeping giants
Rolls of fat with
Brown grass hair peaking through;
Gray patches, reminiscent
Of a once-blue sky,
Stretching across my known world,
Snoring across eons.

These giants no longer live forever.
They are lumps,
And memories.
The wind tears,
Shredding them,
Away from dreams of when they were kings.
Even the giants die,
And I am a tiny thing
Passing through the shadows
Of a morning’s menace.

The night,
Without the day,
Is death.

Without philosophy
Is just starvation

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