The Doorstep

Shifting through an icy trickling stream of 

molten blue like tears flowing fast upon ice flows

And pale face, eyes ringed with red and bruised

she waits upon the frozen doorstep with a hand upon her heart

Busy, hurried with the sounds and shouts of worlds

revolving still despite the freezing winter in her soul

But isolated from the warmth and earth beneath quaking boots

upon that bitter marble step submerged in suffocating emptiness

Behind her stored the broken dreams fractured in dusty sunlight that

no longer hold inside her heart but draw blood from glistening facets

and to the touch, still bleeding in the warmth of dying images

No hand to feel the heat inside her, draining in the light of years

In front of her; the horizons of planets on their axes

still around their suns warmed, but too late to stray their paths

to offer naught but stiff comfort that leaves but the lightest imprint

on a cracking, freezing soul tearing away in last-ditch efforts

And in the gentle glow of windows, withering in silence

rescinding in their fleeting touch and sweep of leathery wings

to cackle in the corners of a long-lost aging maze

that cannot contain the light of day any better than an open door 

Author's Note

This is a form of poetry I've never attempted before. Please let me know what you think. Thanks!