And to speak of glacial pace; a moment to rest, but unsparing to change.
I have yet to leave, so I'll stay.
Winter. Snow falls into my hand... melts in my palm.
A frozen brand. A stinging balm.
These whispered words are far from calm.
These frightened tears are far from gone.
Whispered words cut like the crack of a whip,
hot like the slowly melting snow,
in the wake of furious words below.
Hearts run cold like icy ground beneath shaky feet stepping quick
into the slowly sinking snow. Whispered words in metronome,
fill my head, though I and He are here alone.
I was not prepared for this confrontation.
In desperation, my feet refuse to slow;
Frightened tears and feet like metronomes;
I am running scared, and I fear I do not know
what words tonight might lead me safely home.
— The End —