Blast that wind that blows, Zephyr’s distant kin


Which bites at every nerve and stings like salt in an open wound


On this cold and wintry day.




For true love, like a vernal flower did bloom


And followed with leonine passion


But like the season – it changed.




But ‘tis not this cold that injures


As does that frost of the heart


Biting, numbing – the fringes of my soul.




Thus three years has this winter stayed


Being no companion, but like a captor


Holding my soul in a prison, with bars forged of ice.




Though visitors I have had, none have touched


Nor moved, nor melted those bars


Thus emancipating this captive man from within the walls of solitude.




Whenst comes this thaw called Spring?