winter has the coldest touch,
it spills down your spin,
into your soul,
you name it silence.
you feel it,
you hear it,
you cannot see it,
but it consumes you.
the monsters below are frigid,
they feel it too,
some grasping for air,
some letting it burry them,
they live within us.
we aren't so different you and me,
from the demons we nominate,
they guide us,
control our intellect.
judgment is corrupted,
theory is no longer our own.
flourish from the ground,
look at the dusk in front of you,
it's your reflection.
you are winters touch of silence.