In the third of the night that sent by fate
a fate never meant for me.
As you burn, I freeze,
shrouded in the blizzard of silence,
witnessing your lightning-quick decision.

Makes me stand in the heart of winter,
with void dwelling deep in my senses and breath,
I turn myself into a monument of lament and sorrow,
powerless, violated by the shadow of your touch.

Perhaps I seem calm and unshakable,
but my blood boils, giving birth to a disaster
a tornado of crimson rising in my chest,
spinning without direction, wild and untamed.

If only I had not severed these hands,
for whenever I crave to reach for you,
it would turn me into ruins of darkness,
covered in dust, with shadows nesting in the hollows of my ribcage.

Yet behind it all, a flicker still lingers.
Even if I keep severing my hands,
your warmth, your beauty will always be
the cascade of light I yearn for.
And if I rust away, this monument will stand,
a testament to your grace.

After days of sweat and seeking grace,
I’m back to a place where the coldest winter nests.
Snowflakes fall through the ceiling onto my eyes.
Stairs, petrified by the frost of silence.
At the tip of my ear, I hear the dining table crack its hatch—
the way the lake groans to be dived.
And the fence rusts whenever warmth fades,
while I lay on my bed and the aurora crawls through my head,
cast a shadow—does it all need to be fixed?

I am the soul who piled darkness in the divine’s realm.
It grows well within the ribs of mine,

Alongside anger and disgust,

Reaping in every inch of glass reflection.

And I sow sorrow freshly in the fields of life,

Acknowledging my own sin

Within the punishment that blow-dries His blessings.
I wake with fresh morning hatred.

Rage, shame, and anguish are friends of mine—

They sleep between my eyes,

Sneaking in during moments of daydreaming.
But His blessings are infinite.

Through every inhale I take,

God’s grace shows me mercy and miracles.

And I catch myself holding the point—

Of becoming nothing through death.


Stopping is not the answer;

And so I keep moving,

For the sake of life
And the gentlest death.

After countless phases of tender summer,
I take myself away to the Northern Pole,
allowing frost to reclaim me once more.
I turn myself into an unshakable glacier —
not as a form of regret, but as an ordeal,
so that you may heal with your own valor.

Perhaps I seem unshaken,
but beneath it all, I have drowned half of my sanity,
frozen to the point of being numb and frostbitten.
Darkness nearly devours my soul,
casting me into the pale void of agony —
yet I am restrained by the spark of your flame.

You know you are the fire that smolders,
an eternal flame I wish to plant deep within my soul.
If I do not exile myself, I will keep melting, growing bolder,
for in your presence, hope always rises, never falls —
a longing for the greatest summer,
where we dissolve into one, undefeated emperors.

So even as ice and fire stand apart,
and if this exile is my fate,
let me stand frost— unbroken, yet forever longing.
No matter how far winter takes me,
I will always burn in the ember of your name.