there's an odd transience in the air,
borne of frosted breath and
hushed pain,
all too familiar yet still so strange

I breathe in the change,
as it oils the cogs of the old machine,
sweeping the dust out of metal arteries
amid plastic veins

a heavy step, deepest imprint
in the snow, joints creak in a melody
that only he understands,
a faint whistle, a mimic of harmony

the air is still, not stale
silence says, not feels

there's an odd transience in the air,
and he likes it.
I like it.