Below the Frost Line
Clank . . . Clank
Sparks fly for the first time
across another frigid day
black chunks with shards of clay
thrown anger out the way
Softness hardens amid decay
the midnight's all tucked away
the red, the grey, the blues still play
with one foot in the grave
Deep below the frost line
where Lucifer waits alone
this shovel's getting heavy
lay down in fields of bone
Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2017
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