Equanimous

It was not frostbite
that had gotten him ill,
but the days spent from
staring out a little window

Behind his nightstand
in secret quarters, hope
is shaded from all view that
may deflect; the routinely hand
tugging open hearth's lips

Burnt; like every pulsating beat within him.

Be it there,
perched on wobbly steps
does each of his foot tremble
waning for speech; sore and stiff

If only hearts could speak..

Do tell us then,
that perhaps she will come today
or tomorrow even, he often wondered
 if she would ever come at all

To sweeten, the cold
kisses of wind stroking over his
icy retrieves; those cheekened pinches
awoke the silent waiter that be disease

And though he favored her lips
over death's kiss, the leave eased his feet.