Blank and white with a frostbitten edge,
Like silver knives stinging in every little breath.
Too cold for sex, but perfect for a touch
From fingers warm that don’t sink too much.
It starts with a trance, to the depths, to the roots,
And the emptiness inside, uncluttered, unpoluted.
A masculine abstraction made with feminine grace.
Insensitive seasons reflecting nature’s soft face.
A hunger in a dream, cutting straight through my words,
A silent understanding, an intuition unheard.
The loss of all heat and the induction of warmth.
Pining for nothing and weighing all its worth.
Ambiguities vanish, there’s only one choice,
To relinquish and recover body, disposition, and voice.