Frosted Flowers (a poem)

Cold, frosted flowers
Withered and half-dead
Held in burning hands
Let this disease spread
Under cloudless skies
Mornings are so bright
Winter always lies
I’m preparing for tonight
When my eyes open at last
And see my lover’s face
Through the creaky windows
Comes the chilly draft
She’s held in my embrace
Frosted flowers, burning
In my withered hands
Minutes like hours
In the balance
My winter life stands

(Photo by Ankhesenamun on Unsplash)


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