Melting Ice

Mad to the point of bitter tears.
Past the point of only fear.
I write a song for only my ears.
With a slow rhythm and steady beat,
of the pen on paper.
I hear the soft wind blow.
To calm and settled for me.
The battle in me at the verge of civil war.
The bitter tears of rage, not hot or boiling,
But icy cold stinging and staining my heart to the point of no winning or defeat.
red breast robin sings to me of very real reality that the crow could not know. The tears stop dripping and the rhythm stops beating
and the song stops writing