Here at the end of this smoke-strung land,
where the wind drags its teeth ‘cross my skin,
my grasp on reality numbs in my hands
as the blighting hoarfrost buries in.

Cold is custom at the end of the world,
and betwixt my blue fingers I warm,
a bloodstone, a sunstone, polished and pearled,
to thaw off the sleet and the storm.

I dream of a fire at the end of the night
that’ll soften the ice in my marrow;
I dream of a love shed in sweet silver light,
who’ll return to me from the barrow.

Here at the end of this bitter white land
I search through endless freeze for the dawn;
I cannot reclaim the warmth in my hands,
so with winter in heart, I march on.

© 2014 Stellular Scribe