I am cold.

The Light is gone;
So is the Heat.
The wood with which I feed my hungry Hearth is long gone.

I feed it scraps of paper,
Hoping to appease it.
In the end, this won’t be enough.

I am freezing to the core;
My lips are blue,
I’m shivering uncontrollably.

One Log left. That’s all.
I hesitate to use it; I can hang on.
This humble newsprint will do for now.

I know there is more wood.
But it’s outside; I’d rather not go.
It’s too difficult to get it now.

In the end, it is too late.
The Flame is long gone.
I couldn’t light that Log if I tried.

The silent ash still mocks me,
Offering a modicum of warmth;
Burning my fingers if I come too close, freezing them if I stay away.

All that remains is a cold Hearth and a colder, still Heart.