on a cold day, quickly turning into night, i labored in the forest, splitting logs for fire, to sustain me through the long winter nights.

looking at the sun, setting, on the horizon, i'd  have just enough light to make it back to my cabin. i cleaned my ax, started walking, into the cold dark forest, to my little cabin.

i'd stopped working, my body cooled, the cold seeped in, touching my skin, making me shiver, wishing for warmth of a long ago summer.

i walked, in silence, i never felt so alone, no sun in the sky, no singing birds, just a lifeless boreal forest in the cold of winter.

i felt forgotten, abandoned, buried in the earth, an emotional pain so intense, so deep, it makes grown men cry.

reaching the end of days, no family, no friends, eeking out a senseless existence, not knowing why, too old to work, too young to die, i plod along.

reaching my cabin as the night consumed the sky, the loneliness of winter overwhelmed me, enveloping my body, worse my mind, in the nihilism of why.

tears start to flow, as i opened the door, i wept then cried, as i entered the house, cold and dark, an echo of my life, no fire in the hearth, no food on the table, no wife to hold in my arms, to warm my body, my heart.

i light a fire, then my pipe, pour a glass, and sit in my chair, in front of the fire, staring into the flames, alive with warmth, my only companion, the only reason, i am still alive.