My heart
Some would say frozen
The poverty of emotion
Apparent
But they are crazy
‘Though the memory’s hazy
It’s there
It appears in gusts
Big waves and strong thrusts
Rasping
But with arms adamantly folded
With all that is holy
It’s hidden
My heart
Beats like a saint
Or maybe a sinner
At home it’s a winner
Tied by a rope
To the Earth where I live
In permanent Winter?
Not quite.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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