Tell me stories, Sing me songs Of quiet verse by firelight. You'll tell of your pain to the searing flame That grows not merely in the hearth, Though in your heart. You will speak, Will you not? Of all avenues where your eyes track The simplest reprieve you've always lacked. To something you want to share Upon your chest, to the winter, so bare. You burn brightness to the visitor's surrender In your form, so frigid, that it melts. You have been cold, As you have been sold. You have been waiting For something for nothing. I did love, Though did I give you everything?