Metal Doesn't Feel

Cold
Metal doesn’t feel
That badly when
It brushes ever so
Gently against the
Vein that no one
Ever sees the inside
Of
But for the head of
That curious silver explorer
Making its trek across
Deserts of red so
Torrid and barren but
For the small gushing
River dividing life from
Death and the buzzards
That feed there on
The remains of
Memories forgotten and
Opportunities misplaced like
Shattered Christmas ornaments
That no longer gleam
So brightly as they
Once did and have forgotten
What a smile means when
It is found like
An orphaned child
Alone and attempting to remember
What it felt to
Be alive and not drowning
In that desert of
Red and suffocating
Heat.