Despair is a cancer, a malignant drop of coldest ice,
You shake your head, and so I know, you don’t know this kind of ice.
it lies in the loss of what you knew
and, reaching, grows like vines of ice
In my dream, your eyes were closed, and yet,
your gaze pierced my heart; turned my blood to ice.
You were impossible, magical! No- a blessing,
and yet your loss is the slowest burn, like flesh that sits too long on ice.
I wrote you and wrote you, painted my past with my tears,
And you were beauty and mercy; your eyes the bluest, purest spheres of ice.
I could give and give in eternity layered thick with love,
To freeze time, and give to you; I wish I had that kind of ice
To thank you, to repay and love you,
for warming my heart (By the Grace of Allah) , for melting the blackest kind of ice,
But I feel you distant, or are you asleep?
I knocked on your door, when the path was frozen, covered in ice.
I saw the fire through the window of your house,
The woods wearing winter, the tree branches slick with ice
I see you still, the reluctant figure, turned towards the door,
But I can’t be sure, the window freezes under vines of ice.
They look familiar, those translucent vines,
What I can never give – reflected in ice.
But the door is still warm and I knock again,
But Allah is the only refuge from this kind of ice.
September 28, 2013