Stabbed with an icicle to tare me apart,
Fire held in my chest-flames at his wrist...

I’d sit in my room fiery but ever placid,
Wishing I knew a kindred shadow...

I am the autumn,
Boss of red and gold...

So it’s late once more,
Three? Four? I can’t tell for sure...

It issues from your lips
At the second of final despair...

It has an old fasioned way of writing throughout...
Dear...

All the heat and fire and flame
Coursing through my every vein...

Life is dark
A cloudy sky...

I asked every morning until
It arrived...