Brutal love, lonely promises in frigid, velvet gowns,
the sun has turned back on you, on me, on hope.
We all weep, conquered by sable tears,
by javelins of fables and rue, asking why?
Why did he end the passion, the blush of pretty garlands,
merrily pirouetting over the ivory beauty of snow?
Who let him lash out at the gift of fantasy and flowers?
What soul, what consciousness he shares?
And as the freezing nights separate us with blizzards,
with lifeless words of unwritten ballads, I see
how every dawn is secretly charged with fake summers,
but no answer is granted, only thorns and wounds,
cleaving the last sensation left into ruins, guarding
silently the crystal tiara of his mistress, lady Winter.
© 2012 Broken Sparkles