Blood of ice.
Heart of stone.
No tool sharp enough,
to crack the rough,
jagged wall around your soul.
No smile can penetrate your fire.
There is no emotion from your face.
The gentle flutter of a silk blouse.
The flow of soft wavy hair.
Does the chase even spark an interest?
No!
For you there would be no reward.
You cold, cold heart.
No warmth inside.
Blood of ice.
Heart of stone.
February 25, 1994
Taken from a collection I’ve entitled ‘The Destruction of Me’. Started in the 8th grade through college. Not a published book.
Poetry & More 