In back-hand frosty times
words freeze too.
They can not the fervour find
conditions chilly need.
Iced and dubious
station in th555roat, in mouth,
hesitate from dent’s fence to escape.
Quavering on lips a shame to them.
Fear they do not recognize conditions,
suspect lest your conceptions
lead them in doubting divisions.
If this feeling is your mind’s perception,
wonder whether words are your heart’s voice.
But if your feeling is your heartbeat,
take them as your mind’s choice.
Wayward, frosty times
upset the balance of scale,
dissolve mind’s and heart’s symphony.
Patience.Seasonal ice sometime melts.
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