The snow scorched, unbelievably, and the rain dried
Comforts pricked while the usual silences cried
Every hope dead, the angels don’t look in the eyes
Trust is illicit, and expecting, a vice
Every ardor killed in an attempt to get sturdier
Every last chance compromised in rueful fear
Questions get lost in tangles of a vicious vine
All I ask is, was all the fault really mine?