My Words Like Coals

My words are like coals. They scorch the hands, 
No smoke in them, but echoes of the blizzard’s wail.
Not cold? Beware, don’t let them burn you, 
While you try folding them to letters, letters into life.
 
Behind the mask of silence — stone. 
Behind the stone — mere fear, runes’ wind will sweep it bare. 
Your calculations turn to ash, 
For numbers won’t warm hands against the end’s cold glare.

Barefoot you tread on glass, face numb and lost. 
Perhaps you’ve hid the meanings up your sleeve, 
To shield them from the strangers, lost in daily rush?

The struggle. It’s inside. Until the very end. 
The door you enter whispers: “Endure.” 
Beyond it — only light. Go toward it now.

Hope — a destructive force. 
For those whose hearts still beat. It was the only voice: 
The potion brewed… no trick, perhaps? 
But elixir from the wounds of words inflicted, 
Turned into glowing coals.