Final Thoughts of a Poet
A strand of Pewter
is wrapped around my finger
twisted in upon itself.

The Pewter, not my finger.

Warm the metel
strikes me, despite the snow
the cold draws its heat none

The metel, not the snow

Its heat is the last thing
I feel as I freeze,
burning, keeping me aware

The heat, not I

And as my end comes,
my thoughts jumble around each other
their proper order lost to me

My thoughts, not my end.