The Kiss of Dead Seasons

The cool gray of this winter’s day

Reaches out

Brushing tears from these tender cheeks

Looking on in adoration

Freezing those feelings

Like daggers upon my face

Its dead and barren landscapes beckon me home

To be so hollow

She whispers

“The wind howls so, like a lost child and wailing mother — will you not cry for them?”

I turn

But again

“Would you not die for them?”

The push

The pull

Embraced in arms of ice

I shiver

“You want none of me wretch!”

And to the sky,

“I am but mine, I belong to me;

My pain

My fear

My misery is of this heart

And not of dead seasons”

The eternity of moment shall pass

Through snowy mounds; lakes of glass

That tempt the soul from your eyes

And warmth from every being

But o’ resist this  the season of wither

Bury seeds of such anguish

Ever deeper in your muddied spirit

For in Spring

Such fruits shall bear it

That  no wind, flake, nor ice

Shall draw your sacrifice

But will entreat the heart

To resurrection

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