The Cold of Fear
Cold is the tittering of befitted feet
Cold is the meagre meanders of falling fractals
Cold is the twinge of bitter blues upon reeling retreats
Cold is the roiling retch of frostbitten flesh
Cold is the weary wench of an incomplete belch
Cold is the hoarded heath upon a ridiculed roof
Cold is the eerie ebb of a trepid twitch
Cold is the boyish bodice of meaningless man
Cold is the bane of bountiful bone held of chain to vein
Cold is the foiled figment of blustered breathes
Cold is the iridescent icicle of purified pain
Cold is the poignant punch of a sickened stench
Cold is the frivolous fawn of bludgeoned brain
Cold is the enticing ice of roiling rest
Cold is the belted buoyancy of a famished feign
Cold is the writhing wail of fraught forgiveness
Cold is the desolate depth of ailed eyes
Cold is the stringent stain of blotted blood
Cold is the rouged rememberance of pelting prise
Cold is the gaudy gulp of satin salvation
Cold is the harrowing hurry of soiling snow
Cold is the darkening winterous warmth of comforted coverage
Cold is the heeled horn of the sinner's wretched woe
And wretched be the cold of mutilated body, strapped to snow, falling in tow.
And cold be the sorrows of selfish self.
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