A Green Tory Lament

O block of ice; you're cold to me.
Your finely chiselled worldly features do fade as I look at thee.
Your once crisp message; pours off your frozen brow
 In rivulets of meaningless drips and now,
Your absence of form;  your missingness doth not ignite
My passion, and your hostile environment doth not excite. 
Your’re dead to me, gone astray.
Your form now just a pool of nothingness; my world hath drained away.