and flowers bloom not With petals but in ice

I was born holding my father's

Dying hand; knew early on that

Even vultures wept, that not every

Choir in joy does sing for mournful

Laments at night still ring.

When the summer window frosts upon

Its cobweb glass and flowers bloom not

With petals but in ice

When I loved but that love never

Blossomed into life, but turned sunlight

Into blocks of pointed ice

To cage a heart, maybe mine,

Keep it beating not with the purpose

Of life but with an empty promise

That will never come to pass.