The Harp’s Final Notes

The shards of ice,
Swarm in my face,
The bone crushing frost tugs,
The cold howling on all wavelengths,
reaching beneath,
Professed layers of warmth.

Do not look at me
With those eyes in judgment
Pay heed to my soul,
Just that sliver,
Of kindness we all crave.

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Do not tread,
On the parapet of my soul
To shoot arrows in
My soft underbelly
As her nightingale sings,
and the wind plucks my harp’s final notes.

Alas the ember lay, undying,
Bristling with her memory,
The end of one of many tunnels.