The love I once had is now encapsulated by a chrysalis of hatred.
It is hibernating under a thick skin of doubt and desperate wanting.
Disabled from the numb tingling in its frozen bow.
Our garden once flourished with seeds of hope and blooms of passion.
Now the fruit of us rots on the vine, and falls on the frosty ground,
Only to be eaten by the insane birds and the crazed mice.
How long have we suffered for?
I cannot remember when our spring turned into a vast barren winter,
Or when our clothes became unsuitable for the weather.
When will the ice melt again, so we can sow our seeds of kindness?
When can we frolic once again through golden fields of laughter?
When can we once again collect the fruits of our passion?
Will our harvest moon ever rise again?