Outpost

The connections have been lost,
for all the wires are frayed.
The continuum of messages
is but static and snow.
This cranial outpost,
whose provisions are shrinking,
whose energy is waning,
whose winter is coming,
is too isolated
to hope for anything.
There were faces I had seen,
pleading with me,
But I could not hear them
through the storm,
the sheets of snow
obliterating their forms,
Their words were
but howls and screams.
I can't think what they
were trying to say, anyway.
It is the storm that has the final say.