ICE

It is winter.
In my breast it is winter too.
Icicles live where once beat my heart.

I do not long for spring,
Winter suits me.
Its coldness is bracing, awakening.
It numbs the pain.

Love caused this pain.
I now stand aloof from love,
What need have I for it.

The ice forms patterns on my window.
Beautiful geometric ordered patterns,
A true mathematical beauty.
What need have I for the false beauty of her eyes,
Her lips.

I lay on my bed to sleep.
No more will I lose myself in dreams.
I sleep the sleep of death,
Stillness, ice, ice, death.

Ice is stillness, solid, unyielding.
Frozen water, frozen tears.

John Exell © 2002