To count upon my woe
and prostrate myself at your command
Lips ruminate the words
The powdered skin of slushy snow

And is he only man
With passions gone of last I heard
To all the moments never known
The last of which would fell the ******

Though mortal sighs were solemn dirge
Anticipate the breaths you blow
Inside the shaking grip of hands
Clasps the sudden, hidden urge

To count upon my thoughtless woe,
The last of which would raze the land.