Frosted blades scratch seamless sky,
angry to find no scars.
Serrated edge draws no blood,
nor sawing motion, vein;
Wind is no ally
when renewed rigour
results in naught.
Pain pitched at a hushed heaven
grows boomerang eyes;
the spy’s sabotage
skilfully dissects
along lines traced by rote.
Silvered cycle,
shameful circle,
drawn by frosted blades…
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 
Nice poem.
Thank you!
I really love this one, Melody! 🙂
Thanks Eric!
I liked the line “pain pitched at a hushed heaven.” Thank you , Melody!
Thanks Debbie!
If only we could have the look of winter with the warmth of summer 😉
You get right on that, will you?
LOL – Ok.
Nice work I wish sometimes I had your vision
Ah, but then we would be duplicating when we should be shining in our own unique way… Although, I will take that as a compliment! 🙂