Cold

I am smooth.
Black ebony shines
as cold unfeeling stone.

Frigid is my skin
while the ice drips to the floor.

There is nothing so peculiar
as a companion, a familiar.
While my mind with numbers fiddles,
the ice drips to the floor,
while I write my rhymes and riddles
of a poet and Lenore.

I have no Lenore, but only
stones and ice, smooth and dark
like ocean’s deep–
mysteriously creeping, my
earthly mist comes seeping
through the cracks in every door.

I read the words in books

But taste no rushing waterfall,
as stones drop to my pit–
kerplunk–
with little resounding call.

And I cry I’ve been depleted,
and I beg and plead for more–
while, meanwhile, the ice still drips to the floor.

 

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