Biting cold wind,
Chills me to the
core.
But my battered
soul,
Can take so much
more.
My tragedies are
nothing,
In view of others.
But they don't carry
with them a hollow ring,
Because they are
my truths.
Unloved and insecure,
I daydream of fantasy
worlds;
Where I for just
one day could lie curled.
Protected from that
biting wind.
I daydream of a winter
day.
The cold sea of
air,
Swallowing my spirit,
my flame.
I imagine hope came.
A warm bundle of
love,
Or a simple pair
of woolen gloves,
That can hold me
tight.
Then everything
would be alright.
I drift into a front
lounge scene,
A spitting, fiery
fire frothes with warmth.
Licking my cheeks,
Restoring my spirit.
If I were an eskimo,
How I would long
for some warm glow.
But then how would
I know,
For my life has
less love than snow.
The snow of my fantasy world melts...
Here I am again,
On a lonely windowsill.
Without the whip
of winter wind.
Yet the beauty of
a winter sky,
Far away out of
the corner of my eye.
I still fear things,
Not death nor love,
But hurt and rejection.
Not physical pain
nor embarassment,
Just that searing
idea of forever being alone,
Instead of giving
up friends for lent.
Take from this what
you will,
For I have no use.