The still images, portraits lying on my floor
remind me of who you once were.
And the sad pulsating winds of autumn
mount their plea against the winter's sun -
his beams lacking power in this fortress of cold isolation.
And I wander through the images,
pure with their likened hate,
identical to yours toward me or mine of the same name.
He once tried to overcome her cold abandoned spell,
pronounce winter to be no worse than spring -
an abundance of life.
She fought, icicles against his rays -
piercing his amber shell of organization
with the isolation and aloneness that only she could bring -
the splitting image of death's cold hand -
yet even the warmth of death cannot be seen through this frost.
And you return to me, sure of your own salvation,
your hate stronger than ever -
as I cast my cold shadow towards you just once more.
