( 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.