by Kenneth James Crist

My world is dead.
No light, no heat, no
sound, no passion. I am
a prisoner of my own
desire, each day walking
the exercise yard of
my need and sorrow,
hearing the creak of
frozen branches and the
groan of loneliness.
Time drags and the
seasons will change, the
world will turn. I am
lost, but hopefully not
forever. I long to
hear your voice, to
read something you
wrote. I wait in the
cold. Only time will