My heart is full of fissures,
It is rendered as cold as
The attics of a trivially existing house,
Under the auroral sky
Of a frosty arctic night,
Hard as it is, I am barely able to cling
Onto the life, using merely the warmth
Of the blood, oozing out of my fissured
Heart, this warmth curbed further frostbite.
It is as gloomy as it ever was,
But I’m in an awful lot of content
As I brew this concoction of words,
I ponder,
If the quill knows what it is brewing,
I guess it does know, since I could imagine
The quill transfiguring into needle
And ink into thread,
Just to sew up my fissured Heart.
Rogue Poet 