There are some who may prefer a cloudless sky and the touch of a warm sun. These hearts are similar climates, and you may find them at no great distance from the equator.

Not mine.

My love is for the sedge and moss covered upland of frozen lakes, where the cold white blanket covers the steppes. Peace is found here, among the ice and whispered within the biting gale as it travels over her skin.

Her chill breath touches me, and I am not driven away.
For within my chest beats a fire as black as space between the stars.

And I go unclothed, as the caribou carry me across the frozen land.

I am the horned god.

this is the last poem
that I'll ever write
the very last lines
i'll set into rhyme

giving the thoughts in my head
a much needed rest
with nothing else left
that needs to be said

this is the last poem
i'll pour out on page
any left over words
i'll give them away

maybe somebody else
could use them to say
a few of the things
they've been unable to say

the very last poem
to come from this hand
with all that's been said
no need to say it again

i've weaved tapestries
from beginning to end
now feel the need
to set myself free
and set down this pen