Love turned to ice
Torn from it’s cave
Ribs clutching veins
Cavernous thoughts
Soiled floor
No longer beating
Lay the heart
Of the North Sea Queen
Upon her nightstand
Of blackest of stones.
Alone she sat
Eyes to the heavens
An empty void
Collapsing around her
In a symphony
Of North Sea Wind
Finding hollows
Within the North Sea Castle
Reminding all lovers
To beware
Icy grips of torture
Lay upon the brow;
Deep winter’s birth.
One by one
Suitors came bundled
Inexperienced, undermanned,
Incapable of holding
Court with frost
Who all left lifeless,
Vague and soulless,
Unable to escape
That same grip
Which tore thy love
– Ribs clutching veins.
