Cold chills permeate your whispers,
like arctic winds, heavy with frost.
Your icy words freeze me, give me shivers,
and in this winter storm I am lost.
As you kill me, word by word,
each cuts me like an icicle pick.
I know now that I was absurd,
to cling to hope, naivety makes me sick.
Now, frostbitten and bloodied,
my moribund heart starts to fail.
Past and present, I should have studied,
for then I would know, hope rarely prevails.