Cold

The things I do are not for you. The things I say are but half-true. The forest's coming into view. The trees are tall, but they are few.

Forty days and forty nights cannot make wrong what isn't right. A heart of stone cannot take flight, and blind men cannot see the light.

Don't caress my frigid skin. Don't ask about the state I'm in. Don't pry me open, for within I am the same I've always been.

Fleeing down the open road, activating fighter mode. This is not a secret code; I only want the miles I'm owed.

Frightened, scattered, sad, and lost, crunching over morning frost, pressing on despite the cost, leaving dreams aside where tossed.

Will you find me in the gloom? Where the shadows ever loom? In the night's most silent womb, where everything is steeped in doom?

Will you seek me, lying there? Icicles formed on my hair, memories of when and where all gone forever, no more care

When you find me, will you cry? Will you, bereft, scream at the sky? Will you even wonder why I left that night? Or only sigh?

Will I be a memory? A painful one? A rosary? Will I be your Persephone? Or always just hyperbole?

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/yqu0ai/the_handless_prophet/ivtf6jp?utm_medium=android_app&utm_source=share&context=3

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/yqidbf/confessions_of_a_wolf/ivtfc9b?utm_medium=android_app&utm_source=share&context=3