The Next Ice Age Poem by Michael Ardizzone

My lady, I would kill the stars for you
and drain the sky into a paper cup.
I'd cut my heart, my soul, straight into two
if chance should give me knives with which to cut.
The only knives I see are soiled, though
by lovers insincere, there passions fed
on others passions' source. Their meager flow
they build it false with thoughts, but thinking's dead.
Their hearts they've spilled to others far too oft
to make this show they have convincing, so
they bleed themselves of every dream and cough,
complaining that the wind is growing cold.
My hope is that there is love yet more true
to find before an ice age passes through.