the frozen poet.

I use to own a book, I use to own this book, i use to own the papers within the thick forests coming out of it, I use to own the ink covering it, i use to own the chapped wooden floor it uselessly lyes upon, I use to lye atop the cold reeking bed, i use to own you within it.
the stool iced cold , but I sat, me the frozen poet, with everymuscel fiber blood , nerve, bone within me, deeply, apathiticly frozen. you caress me, and I sleep. to the melody of a thousend screams.
soiled, you are.
spoiled, you are.
uncoiled,you are.
and I am a speck,
upon a star.
pushed,shoved
far too far
I reach to you, to your anointing fingertips, to your flushed, bloodshot cheeks, and I peak, just peak, and I dream. but you clutched my very soul and we fell beneath the grounds of law, tore down the walls of existence, into holes and horizons of our own .
but you are no longer mine.
I do not own this book lying quietly on the floor, your face dose not peer in through my old forgotten door.
my bed remains empty, my heart remains frozen.