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.
Copyright © Denis Bruce | Year Posted 2016
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