I think I’ve forgotten
how the feel of warmth
feels with this ice
overtaking me.

I am but a buoy
miles away from shore.
And the yellow-white
beams of the lighthouse
fall so short,
so far from me.

Black are my eyes.
Cold is my heart.
Purple, my lips;
and sore, my soul.

My cheeks
were the fancy
of Mr. Frost --
they sting now
from Jack-kisses.

And tears no longer
make their way
to the bottom
of my stone face.


Because there’s no hope left to cry for.

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