The Haunting

ghostly iciclesSomething wicked this way comes,

Marching in to Arctic drums;

Promised gift of spring succumbs

To ghosts of winter past.

Ice Queen reigns supreme for now,

Frigid frost on frigid brow;

Soon, she’ll have to take a bow,

For phantoms cannot last.

 

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Just Breathe

fuzzyweed.jpg

Air so cold

it chatters

terrified

in pale lungs

sinks Arctic

anchors deep,

permafrost

of the soul,

robs senses

of the choice

to exhale –

prayer bursts its

irons, breath

warmed by hope,

cold’s power

vaporized.