Water at the field, While eyes scream their sentiment. I can breathe, Force the wind against you, While your lids lift As shutters, from the winter storm. You are worn In my weather, Bleeding from remaining tulips At the petals, have dried With frost upon your lips. Final form, branded together In the song of defeat. Held close, at our feet Are the roots that have been smothered To become ash, leaving seeds. Burned flesh, rising sun, Winter was never a feather Apart from you. With love, at its grace Having you As another drop from the wick, Another tear from the wax Draining the night. Folded hands, Dyed eyes With red staining the ground Where you slept, Continuing to dream For something beyond this scene.