Shell
In the armistice of warring soul,
Quiet raged a seething rage,
I felt before the burn of logs
The heat drain from my human cage.
At the window as I looked
And saw into the room indoors,
Myself asleep before the flames,
Perhaps in dream of distant shores.
The twin of mine with waxen skin,
And chest as still as statue clay,
No outward signs of life to see,
As though all force had drained away.
I blinked my eyes and sighed a sigh,
Then turned aside and bade farewell,
I wept and slipped into the night,
For all that stayed was but a shell.
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