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?

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