Winter has come
Allegro non molto haunts my thoughts
And instantly, I am back to that day
Nebulous clouds of soft misty rain
Gently saturating my resolve
It has been a fortnight of misery
So I take pause as,
Adiago-Presto plays on
And the vanguard of my thoughts
Runs the amorphous path I deem vital
Through the briar of thistle,
I struggle
As Presto dissolves
And another sun, sets

first the crow came often
with a clump of hair in its beak
its glassy eyes would soften
as its wings weakened and waned
now the crow doesn't come
to my tree anymore
but i still hear wings hum
past the crack of the door

I am of a strange alchemy.
Iron and tarnished silver,
with porcelain hands.
The rest feels like glass.
Fragile.
Vulnerable.
As though the smallest tremor
could send me falling
to shatter.

Love didn't walk away.
You did.

It was a fire that froze me,
flames grazed a heart barely beating,
freezing me firm
from a core of embers, heat of great therm,

the standstill of a solid soul,
a final surge of a song shook
from a burning center
riddled with freezing scars; make my words slur

with drunken lips and a harsh breath.
Frozen by passion so intense
I sit by the ice,
Hoping the chill will be my body's vise.

So cold, so cold, the fire swept me
From the arms that held me so dear,
Maybe this iced glow
Melds a chilled, burnt heart, only God will know.

A fire. A fire, I say!
It iced my very bones solid,
His heat left me cold--
He was my sun, the only thing to hold.

Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude
  Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
  In life before thee are again
In death around thee—and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.
The night—tho’ clear—shall frown—
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given—
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee forever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish—
Now are visions ne’er to vanish—
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more—like dew-drops from the grass.
The breeze—the breath of God—is still—
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,
  Is a symbol and a token—
  How it hangs upon the trees,
  A mystery of mysteries!