I love the winter
-- oh how I love the cold.
The numbing temperature is morphine to my soul.
Rushing through my veins, turning my blood to ice
A natural drug; my only sense of sanity, my demonic vice
And it frees me.

I love the winter,
and all its melodramatic glamour.
There's a sheen of romantic sadness when church bells clammor
I love the winter;
-- it's when I came out of the Cave.
Saw the Truth for what it was,
and wrote it down page by page.

Leave me with the snow;
I want to hear the church bells
              ring.
*-lf-

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)