Oct 18


Two figures, lost in wind
in snow
knee-deep, frozen, piling
around their faces,
nose rose-pink,
eyes scratched.

One holds the kindling.
One holds the match.

And the grey comes, cold, creeping
into fingertips,
It sticks.

Breath feels sharp.
The fire. All you need is a bit of wood.

But they won’t give the wood, and they want your matches.
Count them:
two, four, six seven eight.
Beautiful, perfect, slender and straight.

Burn them.

Clutch them.
If they won’t give up, neither will we.
Clutch tight.
If they leave us to the frost
-I’m scared-
the ice
-it’s getting dark-
we’ll leave them in the darkness too.

We’ll make them see.

The fire.
You both need fire.

Make them pay.

Let go.
But -
Let go.
It is cold.
It is so

But you can’t feel it.
You can’t feel, can’t feel the grey coming
the cold creeping.
the frost seeping into your veins,
you can’t-


Slowly buried, hands growing numbingly familiar;
was the snow ever here?

We are all freezing
-and now-
we are all freezing         in hell.
I’ll meet you there.


So     alone.
And you had everything you needed.

                                                                                                                                       Good luck prying fire from a frozen hand.
About the Author: QueenofDawn
"I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say." -Flannery O'Connor