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The Cold
The cold
Is a playful, child-like ghost
That encourages you to come out and
Play.
In a feigned show of recognition it
Teases your hair,
Refreshes your face
And cools the back of your neck.
Fresh, crisp.
The apparition is evil.
Once it has you within striking distance
It closes in,
A patient, pre-meditated, pounce.
Almost teasingly
It playfully traces his finger
Down your back -
Mocking,
Disappearing the instant you turn your head
But gradually sneaking out from
Behind the curtain
To once again continue the torment.
Shiver becomes Shudder
Refreshing becomes Refrigerating.
The apparition penetrates,
Permeates,
Finds its way under the door
Over the window ledge
And through the blanket
To freeze your soul.
It shows no compassion,
No mercy.
Strong hands
Clutch you like a vice and
Squeeze.
Needles of ice
Crawl under your skin;
A slow, painful acupuncture of
Stalactites and Stalagmites
Injecting chilled water
Until all is blue and frozen and
Petrified.
| Posted by Matt at 16:22 /writing # |