When, in my heart, is winter’s chill,
Despite the summer’s day,
I lean upon my window sill
And wish myself away.
I see myself in northern Spain,
Tahiti, Chad or Greece,
And yet I know my inner pain
Shall neither ease nor cease.
So what’s the point of leaving here?
I’m everywhere I go;
I’m every bit as ruled by fear
In sunshine as in snow.
I thought your love might change all that;
That wasn’t where your heart was at.
Photo by john labelette on Unsplash
Frost
