Bright pain burns my orbs,
Stabs through the gray.
Salt trembles to spill.

Do you not think of me?
“Its not fair,” I long to screech at your back,
Yet I am prostrate before,
Begging your return,

Trembling pink pout, and aching core.
My friend gone, a husk there remains,
Shade of the past that was,
Future hidden in that ghost.

Crying from my cellar door,
Seeking in the heavens your tower gate.
Barred to my entreaty it remains.
Frozen in my vault I endure,
Unable to warm my soul,
Seeking the flames of your spirit.

Piercing ache shattering the through numbing cold,
Splintering deep with driven shards racing farther into damaged fields.
Bitter words freezing on broken surfaces.
Left in disrepair, abandoned breech filled with the arctic loss.