Your poems are like ice:
glacial rhymes and rhetoric trace the page,
the ridged syntax and cold words play over again in my brain.
Your writings wrap my mind,
encasing my thoughts in a blizzard of snowy stories,
A storm in which only polar eyes can see-
only an icy heart can read; a heed into a frozen desert where resides your less than sentimental flurries.
I earnestly greed for a warmth away from your frostbiting freeze;
A chilling breeze always accompanies your lack of company.
I wish you'd spend more time with me...
Oh how much I miss the days you'd sweep me off my feet-
We'd dance around for hours in random fleets of flash born spontaneity,
Then we'd sit to write raging tales of explosive emotions and rapture,
I yearn for even a radiance or ray of the light you used to capture
I was so enamored by the beauty you'd manufacture,
But now everything you write is frosted over; lackluster hereafter
So void of life it makes me wonder why we we're still together-
All of our excitement tucked away, summed only in a single stack a paper.
Now only left with memories, and the empty gazes towards former times of warmer weather.
