Cryonic Comfort

It is as cold as the tomb When its thick white blanket Shrouds the now dormant earth Pristine and pure Muffling sound Making us the living dead. Up above sparkle the icy heavens Sending down the deathly Pallor of the moon. Downturned knives of icicles Stand guard over windows Frosted with runic designs. Resurrection from this suspended State of animation Recommences with the thaw When the icy daggers drip Reproclaiming the essence of life.