The cold creeps up my feet in a vine like embrace,
crawling toward and ridding my heart
of the little warmth it holds
in distant memories,
and my fingers of the will to sense.
It imprisons me in an acute awareness
of isolation, the futility of my pursuits, the smallness of my stride
and the sad poetry in doomed fallen snow.
The barren trees,
the biting wind and the idle skies
dispense melancholy in abandon
and in the midst of such cold,
I yearn.



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