The breath of souls hangs
Trapped in shimmering grey icicles
From branches barren
With the dormancy of death,
A cold so bone-deep that
It breaks the will of the masses
Driving them further into their hovels,
To cower with ashen pallor,
Beside flickering blue flames,
Confronted with their own mortality
And fragility, so easily shattered,
Like severed power lines draped,
Serpentine and sparking, across
The deserted black asphalt;
I hear their heavy shuffling movements
Around me through walls,
Not equipped for Nature's wrath,
Their vitality stolen by a slick silver scythe,
And buried beneath an inch of ice,
To break the ground once again,
Green and purposeful,
When the cycle has completed
And the Reaper trudges back to his cave,
Satisfied with his week's heavy harvest.

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