( or To the World. You choose. )
Boughs are bleeding in blooms of red,
the frost came forth, a freezing veil.
A thorn within, thin sliver of
pain, depriving the poet, the scop,
of scope; he’s scared, screaming, hurting.
Of love is loss the lone measure,
for loss in love leaves the heart cold.
A vivid vision: the void within
as silent snow slowly covers,
in coils of cold, the cruel truth.