On Winter’s Edge

On winter’s edge,
She ponders much:
Like whether love’s
Become a crutch,
And maybe if
It’s time to go —
She ponders much,
But doesn’t know.

On winter’s edge,
She stops to breathe;
The sky above,
The snow beneath,
They all bespeak
A frozen way —
She stops to breathe,
But still can’t say.

On winter’s edge,
No answers come:
Her mind is blank,
Her hands are numb,
She just wants real,
And good and true —
No answers come —
They never
Do

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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