Again it is winter, and Each year I write another ode. This poem is not been writ before And will not be writ again. I wonder; these odes are nothing alike Though the seasons do not change.
She Melted Me
All souls are as wisps Floating in our chambers, But more often than not They are as gnarled ivory. Mine was like ice, so she did melt it. And it poured into every pour of my body. Then it froze again As thin and brittle as glass. I lie a broken shard Who will never again have form Even if warmed by some new fire.
I often forget about things like Pogs and God, both fads of mine, you see.