There's a warm air in the freezing cold

a breeze that chaps your lips and leaves them tasting like poetry

sweet yet slightly bitter like an almost dead rose

laying at the feet of what you've written as a 

sacrifice to your thoughts which you cannot get a hold of

swirling around your head like a hundred clouds

out of reach and impending doom in stormy skies

still you try to form the words that sit on your fingertips

almost causing physical pain as they want release

each word becoming a drop of blood flowing through your veins

a tiny bit of the life you have in you

welling up as the text appears  before you

creating what you only hope will be received well 

not fallen like an Autumn leaf

destined to waste away in nothingness

until along comes a solitary soul

coaxing from it life.