Forges burn, quicken flesh which passes through.
The cooling is the greater pain, those who
have lost it seek heat, a return
to some hint of passions burn.
Light matches which stutter, wink, fade.
Rub sticks which crack, rip hands, disappoint.
Their eyes frost over,
Lips grow numb –
For nothing warm will ever come.
They are wrapped in shawls, rocked in blankets.
Eyes fix backwards, then blink, then dip.
Resigned to hours as the waking dead –
Counting down the hours, freed upon the minute most men dread.