Cold

I am not cold when the wind blows In the shadow of desolate night, I stand, When tempestuous breath entwines my lament, Nor cold am I, when pale moonlight doth wane, Yet within this ashen frame lies a heart, A mocking specter of joy, dressed in pain. I am not cold when the wind blows, But bitterness bites in winter's cruel grasp, For the warmth of thy embrace eludes me, An ephemeral sigh, as I long to clasp The essence of thee, tight 'gainst my lamenting breast. I am not cold when the wind blows, Nor when the celestial sphere dims its glow, Only when this weary heart resounds, A hollow echo, as you drift by me slow— How I mourn for the presence I cannot know. I am not cold when the wind blows, But the chill creeps in if thy visage is lost, A heart, laden with shadows, a prison confined, Alas, how it shivers, for it feels the frost Of longing too deep, when thy absence is enshrined.