I stare blindly over the world,
my head engrossed in the clouds who cluster white as death
and whisper blizzards and thunder upon my cheeks and chest
like frigid lovers whose affection is ice.
I spin and feel it at my core as if trapped in a centrifuge
never to be free.
How much of me is left beneath the ice and snow-cloaked bones of fools
who wasted their lives to prove nothing?
Beneath the crevasses filled with bitterness and fatigue?
My fading heart lies troubled
under an unforgiving boulder of powder,
the likes of French aristocrats who never knew my name.

I forgot long ago if I am volunteer or victim in the cosmic scheme
and why I hold the sky from falling on them all,
despite their desperate dreams for destruction half-baked,
their desire to watch it all end
like the last snowflake in a velvet night or a single rose petal blown to shore.
They are trite, lost, and stupid,
struck dumb by their own potential and still I keep that heavy blue from crushing them.
I remember there was fire, where is it now?
Buried with the ancient living seas and flaming sky and Prometheus,
under the pretenses and makeup of other fallen gods who never understood
a flame is more than heat and light.
There is emptiness in me and in the bones of vultures
who soar about my waist thinking they are something nobler,
but who feast upon the dead all the same.
I wish to fly as they do, lifted by some secret heat in this icy air
and set free from the mass beneath me,
surrendering the self to the sun to melt and die
in a glorious show of heat, but I stand charred already,
blackened by the slow years of my existence in their steady repetition
who still feel like they count for something and as I blink, they pass away.

I need you more than ever to run your fingers through my hair and wrap your arm about my back,
to gently press against me, warm and scented with musk and lemons,
and tell me softly of things I cannot see who do not howl and attack like ice storms.
Things that would melt like sunbeams in the crook of my shoulder,
and bring back flowers to my side.

I need a flood to let me wash myself and this world,
reducing all to rubble and sand that we might dance as one cloud
of sharp and broken flakes around the sea,
to grace the hides of dark green crabs and fill the corpses of wayward cicada,
to hide and fill the hallows underneath it all.
I need fury, I need feeling, I need fire
that I can free my soul from this rapidly deteriorating cocoon of wrathful winter
kept tightly shut by a tyrannical terrestrial, unhappy to be without a taste of heaven.
Let me spit smoke and flames like my siblings
and torch the world beneath the motherly moon
whose milky light falls upon me when I feel the most alone.
How I need something to embrace me, though I am far too massive to embrace.
How I need something,
anything but frost and frustration
and this feeling of being forsaken.
O don't abandon me now!
I am dying as I smell the approaching laughter of spring and the warmth of your smile,
and I am glad because I could not bear another day under this bitter, distant winter sun,
who paces like a hungry judge above me, stark and cruel.