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by John Exell

It is winter.
In my breast it is winter too.
Icicles live where once beat my heart.
I do not long for spring, Winter suits me.
Its coldness is bracing, awakening.
It numbs the pain.
Love caused this pain. I now stand aloof from love,
What need have I for it.
The ice forms patterns on my window.
Beautiful geometric ordered patterns,
A true mathematical beauty.
What need have I for the false beauty of her eyes, Her lips.
I lay on my bed to sleep.
No more will I lose myself in dreams.
I sleep the sleep of death,
Stillness, ice, ice, death.
Ice is stillness, solid, unyielding.
Frozen water, frozen tears.