On a cold morning day she dared him to walk the distance.

In frost, barefooted he started his pace, behind him a closing door.

Through Taiga and Tundra, he wandered for lights

In his quest of refulgence he burnt his nights

Battered from the tempest, he reclaimed his steps

His ego cast away, storm battled, he whispered the door

The curtain moved, the corner raised and she asked “who are you”?

Her denial in small words drove in him with cold steel knives,

He survived the winter tempest to be pierced by her frosty dagger.

Head dropped, hope culled, he turned dragging on an aimless course

Time turned into coarse wrinkles, her black into grey, overcome by remorse

The door she slammed then, now stands open howling into desolation

Gazing into wintry aimlessness, she now awaits him by the window

~S~

28t August, 2012

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