Deadly
A dying face in static pose
appears like palely marbled stone.
In bed its normal, I suppose,
that snowy flesh has milky bone
The falling flakes that feel for air
or wander lost in foreign land,
once swiftly danced with tango flair
not gathering a frozen hand.
But snow dissolves in water fast
as ice releases silver drops,
then whitened limbs relax at last
when floppy clocks their ticking stops.
Yet hardened frost in death's repose
resurrects words that poems compose
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