The oil and the dark.
Pooling and yawning around.
For waiting is the hardest thing.
Stuck inside a circumstance while the world moves on.
Trees stripped of life as seasons pass.
The moon spins on, grinning and fading.
Changing and evading the sun.
What was love was frozen into a moment.
Carved into the ice, and buried until you lived for us again.
I stand, waiting for the sun.
Waiting for the fire to hurl forth once more.
To melt that place and warm my vision.
A place of smashed clocks and flowers.
To ignite our cold hearts.
Trapped inside their cages of bones.
Where we may love again.
Havoc and Consequence 
ah snow and cold, never fails to warm the heart. you have a beautiful way of describing these icy lands and frosty landscapes.
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Glad you said that, thought i’d exasperated all analogies for snow post Black snow. Soon that time here, the weather is on the change.
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Still longing for snow here. Your ice poetry never gets old, always something to mesmerise and fascinate.
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We are, all, waiting, for that, warmth of, springtime, to, arrive, and sometimes, the winters are, dragging on, too, long…
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Hibernated too long recently perhaps. Springtime awaits on the other side though.
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