heavy eyes sink, into my hollow
skull. finger tips blued, nails
chipped and worn. it began
with a coldness, washing over
my vibrant being. how I miss
the body, I once was. It pried
melodies from my throat, and
composed a dirge where they
resided. then, it filled my lungs
with sludge, that way, when
I cried out, the tune would
further corrupt. I lay helpless,
worn, and tattered. I do nothing
but lay, and wait, for the familiar
embrace, of health.

A spark ignites, so small, so sly,
Born of a glance, a word gone awry.
It leaps to life, a sudden flame,
Feeding on fury, stoked by blame.

A roaring blaze, fierce and wild,
A tempest untamed, untender, unstyled.
It sears through thought, it burns through care,
Consuming reason in its glare.

For a moment, the world is ablaze,
Each breath, each pulse, a molten haze.
Tongues of wrath lick at the soul,
Devouring warmth, devouring whole.

And then—it fades, a cruel retreat,
Leaving silence sharp and bittersweet.
The ashes settle, the embers die,
Cold winds rush where heat did lie.

Empty now, a hollowed shell,
No comfort left, no tale to tell.
Anger spent, it leaves behind
A frigid void, an aching mind.

Oh, fleeting fire, so quick to start,
You scorch the soul, you break the heart.
Yet in your wake, a truth is told:
A flash of fury leaves only cold.

It was the first minutes of the morning after.  
The feast of Stephen boldly trod across the threshold
and waded through the leftovers
of Christmas delights and indulgences,
the echoes of family festivities,
and the discarded wrapping
still clinging to twists of Sellotape.  

The delights repeated,
the echoes faded
and all the discarded
lay deep and crisp and uneven,
even as we followed the heat
of the good King's steps,
into the cruel cold,
seeking the blessing of fresh fuel
for the wider feast ahead.

I think my heart may be made of stone,
It's durable, but often pieces of it crumble away.
It sparkles with crystals,
The remnants of happy memories.
It's cold to the touch,
After all, rock is heat resistant.
But that's not the greatest,
For I can't feel the warm fingers of love.

I miss the days in summer,
When cold rains didn't drown out the sun.
And cold winds,
Wouldn't make my dry skin burn.