My thoughts, in a poem

To what do I owe the pleasure of your disturbance?
Whether time and time again you intrude,
interloper of my life like common happenstance;
the wind howls with your movements,
like a child without its mother
crying to the wolves
to slaughter its sheep.

You are the frost, the unrelenting cold
which chokes my lungs and blinds my eyes;
your realm is one of cold apathy
and scathing ignorance.
In the cold, one feels no pain,
only intent.
Whose intent do we rely upon,
when angels become demons?

Where is my salvation,
my warm glow of squalid achievement
on which is base my entirety?
My train has nary left the station,
and it has already been derailed.

There is no opportunity in antagonism,
no future in bastardization of truth;
there is no name to be made in schism,
nor any glory to be won in death.
Time is the grand juror, the ultimate advocate;
it is the hated ally or the beloved foe.
But outside of time, outside of faith,
outside of fear, outside of hate,
outside of death, outside of apathy,
outside of war, outside of peace,
outside of love, outside of aggression,
there is consciousness.