To Trek

Fair weather is a 
fan for medium minds:
the fatal spirit thrives in
extreme's opposite.

Each eye wouldn't 
rather but must gather
ice,  a massing preference
for the cold hatted 
discomfort that fortifies
otherwise whine.

Whimper, but do
not simper, as steps
wise to slips may 
fall; no forehead
at risk could be
caught broken
staring at the
graying wall.

As the sun 
sets, spiked
shoes grasp
for now another
straw of vacuum
sealed time.