An engine built to run forever
Cracks beneath the weight of winter.
Ironic—when we've only known summer,
Yet here we are, frozen in time.
The warmth that once kept it alive
Now threatens to burn it down.
A fire waiting to ignite,
A winter that refuses to pass.
Still, a burning warmth lingers—
Not from the sun, nor from the sky,
But from a presence, close yet distant,
A force both near and out of reach.
Words collide,
Paragraphs misaligned,
Like rusted gears,
They grind and slip inside my mind.
A missing piece—unseen yet felt,
Leaving the whole incomplete.
Spinning endlessly, yet stuck in place,
No matter how I push, I stay the same.
Now tell me, how does one turn,
When the piece that makes it whole
Rests in the hands
Of someone who will never return?