Faded Fire

I have been walking for so long, I have forgotten how to be still;
I have forgotten why my feet continue to move, the reason
That I want to get out of the cold, or how to revive a frozen will.
I keep moving because motionlessness would now seem treason;
I keep moving because fear walks behind me, close as a shadow.
I shiver, and wonder why I ever loved the snow and the cold season.
Deep into my bones has the cold ventured, and there it clings,
Strung into the interior of my being like the very tendons or marrow,
And a high and a sharp and a chill song it chatters to me and sings.

I hear a sound behind me-can I still hear?-and so whirl around.
But behind me is nothing but the blaze of sunblood on the snow,
Blue flitting and dancing, a trembling pattern of azure on the ground,
A soundless chuckle, the scraping of talons of a playful shadow.
I turn back to walking, trying to recall some scrap of faded fire,
Trying to recall how the old cacophonies of warmth used to go,
Songs that I disdained when I was curled up before the glass,
And could watch the snow fall or not, at my own free desire,
Or turn back to the book I held, and wait for the snow to pass.

I walk, and the patient thing behind me follows, lightly dancing,
Now flicking ahead, now flicking beside, now flicking behind,
And at my memories and deepest dreams chuckling and glancing,
And then lashing out, and ripping yet more memories from my mind.
I wince, and clutch my head, and wonder: what I am doing here?
How did I leave home? But not a single clean memory can I find,
And at last I keep walking, since it seems I have nothing better to do,
And the snow-dazzle strikes to blind, and the wind gnaws each ear,
And the change gambols around me, bleeding strands of blue.

I fall at last, collapsing into a snowbank that wraps and holds me deep,
And I feel my eyes close, shutting out the tiring, tireless leaping gleam,
Despite the fading shouted warnings that I should not dream or sleep.
But when I drop into nothingness, I find that I do not precisely dream.
I find myself gathering in my hands my own blood's kindling flame,
And draining it away into the snow, watching calmly the crimson stream,
Watching it pass from me, feeling it pass from me as I forget the heat,
And forgetting my last memories, forgetting the fear and my own name.
Then the cold replaces the faded fire, and easily I rise to my feet.

I examine my new flesh, and am more than pleased with what I find.
I might be carved of crystal; so transparent am I that I reveal every line
Of vein in my body, and marble synapses shine dazzling in my mind,
And my hands could cut like icicles, so thin are they, and very fine!
I tilt my head back, and sniff the air, knowing the wind's cruel speed.
I sigh, and my breath irradiates the air around me with its white shine.
I let slip the memory of fire, of faded fire, on humanity loose my hold,
And go into the sun-dazzle, the blue-shadow, on warm blood to feed.
Death and rebirth-though not the human kind-await me in the cold.