Cold as ice, no fun no vice. Locked in your mind-set, stiffened, rigid. No give no play not tempted to stray.
Comfortable land of certainty, no joy, no glee. Tunnel vision, ahead you see, bypass emotion the attraction of the ocean. No emotion, icy steel, always on an even keel.
Wounds fester, never heal, underneath that ice-cold layer that never peels. Time squeals, yearning to bellow into deep voice, but the heat of the moment hits the ice-cold layer, never thawing.
Bleak winter’s cold tears seep into the molten core, deepening the coldness, never to melt like before, never to leave those rocks so bare, so sore. Fossilised emotions on the frozen wastes of time.
© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018