The Season of Ice.

The Season of Ice

Smeared across from roof to floor,
Lingers the memories of the lost,
Who spent their last behind this door
And suffered the minutes of a cost,
But here I sit, to wait and stay,
Sleeping in the filth of guiltless blame.
Waiting for a time to end this day,
Like a winter's touch brings life to tame.
And, I, the bird with broken wing,
Forced to freeze upon this ice,
And face my death from fatal sting,
With stubborn pride that did entice,
And saved my lips a sinful lie,
To make a deal with simple plea,
But they should know I rather die,
Then take the blame and let it be.
To scar my soul with cold to last,
So, here I wait for my last breath,
As sand falls down the hour glass,
For I Bore witness to her death.

For that one night I can't forget,
The opened door and blood on floor,
Working late I now regret,
Because her life I can't restore,
For a man walked in with readied thought,
To end her life along with mine,
And the dripping drops, he cared not,
As he placed winter upon her spine,
With nothing more than roaring knife,
That rested keenly upon her back,
As I rushed down to give her life,
But in dismay my mind went black,
And there I stood, mistake in hand,
As frost came swift upon the ground,
And my winter came without demand,
For cops came in with utmost sound,
To slam my coffin with their zeal,
And throw me in this frosty Grave,
That leaves me with this final meal,
A bag of Ice that does deprave,
And yet the taste is all I have,
For my dead heart is frozen dry,
beaten, battered, cut into halves,
But winter calls, so, now good-bye...