Wildes Writing

Tim Wildes

Becomed the terrain, I am above them.

The animals cold and wet, the ground hardened like a cool glass.

I watch them move. I watch them fuck.

They suffer.

The world is coldened to near frigidity, the creatures below can hardly breathe

the de-oxygenated-

air.

I want to come down and

help them; I am still.

I can’t feel my arms past the shoulders.

I watch as they shrivel and lay on hard grass.

They are beyond my help, even if I could provide it.

So I watch them – atop this

horrible plane-

my beplaguant tower.

I cry out as they die.

Although I couldn’t wipe their tears if I wanted.

Damned to eternity in this

world frozen

over.

Art by Sean Bergin