My heart grows black every winter.

It smells rancid of shame and grief.

My beat is bereft of warmth and fondness.

My boiling emboldens me to act on brazen

impulses as the fire inflames my veins.

For a day, I wait it out, but it grows harder.

A day later, I permit it hijack my mind

and it grows sharper.  I wish there

were roses to smell and dispel

whatever lurked into my heart.

Oh, how I wish there were poems to

read to tame the fire that coarse my veins.

I won’t. I won’t.  I shall. I shall.

And in time it will be forgotten

with everything else.