Seekers by Joey Ng

The filtered air feels thin between our teeth, Filling our lungs but not filling at all. As the cold hit my throat, tremors ripple Within, my pupils dilate as the Pressures of the sky grow apparent. We trek on, light in our steps, Careful not to linger in blunt state. The ground shifts with each step, Powder casings around our boots. Ascending plumes of cotton weave And untrodden faces of black lime, We see discarded steel and shallow graces. A neon green jacket arm reaches Like the grasp of the undead and unwilling, A patron of ice glazed over, Preserved and placed in the archives Of seekers of necessity. No consolation for us, we pass by, Our eyes transfixed but unfocused, Choosing form over trite Delineation of lines and curves. The vision is of one’s arrange, All-encompassing with its primal views Of aptitude and sensation. In time our tired feet come to a stop At the face of the great cradle, Split along the grain and veering into fog. I stake my cane in the snow and sit on My throne, another king no one shall know.