Hello, my loyal readers! Hello to everyone that’s actually stuck with all my mad ramblings and scribblings over the past year. Let me just say thank you for actually reading what I’ve pumped out.

So I’ve seen a lot of artists try an exercise where they take something that they’ve created several years in the past and try recreating it in their current style, showing off how far they’ve come and how dramatically their skill has improved. So, from where I sit, splayed out on my couch at 3:39am, I provide you with my latest dose of fluff writing for this week: a poem that I first wrote four years ago for a contest. To be quite honest, I don’t remember what had inspired me to write this in the first place--I’d completely forgotten about writing it at all, till about two days ago when I was cleaning out my room. Here is the typed transcript of my original text from 2013:

"Frigid Hearts (or Hearts of Stone)”

Her gaze is cold, a mirthless grey,

Revealing utmost frozen will;

Her words are ice, and none give way

to trace of warmth—more venom still.

From pallor skin and razor tongue,

They’ve drawn away in fear,

For with such bitter songs she’d sung,

No friend felt wanted here.

Still ’tis wondered, on and on,

What chilled her to the bone?

What crime was dealt, what damage done—

To leave her with such heart of stone?

Did lover’s scorn cast her adrift,

Midst this endless, frozen spanse?

Or during time of mournful rift,

When none would spare her but a glance?

Dare wonder we, if from her birth,

She’d lived with such a soul—

Some heartless scheme of nature

To assign her such a role.

Yet none can know what’s stranger still—

Within her frigid, hardened shell,

There lies the fiercest war of will—

A flaming, frozen hell.

’Tis not her wish to be so cold,

And drive the warmth of man away;

The solitude has cleared her mind—

Revealed the error of her way.

Yet trapped within her shell she stays,

With none remaining to draw near.

All hope’s been lost for her return—

Her desperate screams can reach no ear.

So on she fights, and on she stands,

Entrapped within her war, alone.

Wond’ring if she bears the strength,

To melt away her heart of stone.

And now, here’s my revised 2017 edition of this poem. If you don’t mind, read over both of these once or twice so you can properly notice the changes.

“Heart of Stone”

Her gaze is cold, a mirthless grey,

An abject, frozen will;

Her words are ice, and none give way

to trace of warmth—more venom still.

From pallor skin to razor tongue,

All draw away in fear,

For in those bitter songs she’d sung,

No friend felt wanted here.

Of questions asked, there rises one—

What chilled her to the bone?

What crime was dealt, what damage done—

To seal her heart in stone?

Did lover’s scorn cast her adrift

In endless, frozen deep?

Or during times of mournful rift,

When naught put fears to sleep?

Dare wonder we, if from her birth,

She’d lived with such a soul—

Perhaps some heartless scheme of fate

Assigned her such a role.

Yet none do know what’s stranger still—

For deep inside her shell,

There lies the fiercest war of will—

Enflamed, yet frozen hell.

’Tis not her wish to be so cold,

To drive man’s warmth away;

But life as such has grown so old—

The easier course to stay.

So trapped within the shell’s the burn,

None try to draw her near.

All hope’s been lost for her return—

Screams fall on senseless ear.

So on she fights, and on she stands,

Entrapped in war, alone.

If only strength lay in her hands

To melt her heart of stone.