Return of "Bad Poetry Never Dies"

Written after watching an episode of Unsolved Mysteries, circa 2001. It was very cold that day.

GARRETT'S COVE IN WINTER
The cold dawn, the cold night
Chilly laughs of nervous fright
Emotionless knowing, glacial stare
The cold-shouldered newcomer, who spoke unaware.
Frigid morning, shaking sleep
Frozen feet stamp off the deep.

Long night full of shivering fits
The second hand sweater, all she could get
Dead ashes of a fire she could not restart
In a brutally cold, judgmental heart
Unaffected usualness, chanted intonations
The cold shoulder he gave to her self-revelation.

Woman-half-girl, too young to see
How love grows cold, or will never be
Long hard stares from an angry man
Neighbors don't help, unsure if they can
Deep down they know, but refuse to see
Cold fears they carry, "That might have been me."

Icy ground, icy air
Accusatory husband with a stony blank stare
Followed by outbursts, shouts without thought
Sinking realization: It was all for naught.
Hard won forgiveness, stingily given
The cold, dingy corner into which she was driven.

Broken-nailed fintertips scrunched into her palm
Callous executioner, performing with calm
A cold report, oh yes, the neighbors heard
They heard too, the car, pull away from the curb
Into the January snows, that wintry day
A lover-turned-killer, who just sped away.

Lonely mist, the sleet begins to fall, when
A midnight phone call! Upsetting us all
Bare feet hit the hard wood of the floor
Her echoing laughter will ring no more.
One wintry day we laid her to rest,
Shame filled our mouth, "How could we have guessed?"

The silvery cold room where the murder took place
Wrinkled worry-fright on a small child's face
Pennies forgotten laid out on the track
He ran out of his childhood, and he's never been back
He looks into steamed windows, feeling always alone
Fifty years later, a little boy grown.

Numb waves of confusion, his eyes focus afar
The breeze stirs his heart, a door left ajar
Tinsel tracks of late autumn dew
A shiver acknowledges all he's been through.
Grey stones, his seat by the sea
Silent, impassive, wondering what this day will be.

The slow gray coldness of a lonely man's hands,
The blue regret he feels as he looks out on his land.
The chilly call of geese as they fly overhead
Reeds in the mist, the season now dead.
Years flew by, how no one knows
"It's just how things are."
"It's just how life goes."

Snowflakes that fall in the lost midnight
Drifts on the ground in the frigid moonlight
The blue black emptiness of each winter's eve,
He shivers and trembles and wants to believe
That God is here, that She is here
Above him, around him, that voice in his ear
That wakes him hello, and soothes him down deep,
That comforts him, lulls him, and loves him to sleep.