Deep Chill
She is the first I have met
whom I cannot think of dead
without regret
without feeling left
in a ruin.
I break out from the stress
of her in that long, black dress
and her eyes welded.
My soul is belted
by her coffin.
Let me go on forth, away from your storm,
o' brutal Winter Spirit.
Do not get me wrong, for I played along;
but how she sleeps, lays a variable
under a cloak of allure unutterable.
We want more days, so pass your gaze
onward, viscous Winter Spirit.
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This is the first rhyming poem I had written in quite some time.
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