Shivering beneath the merciless cold,
Yet I make no effort to seek warmth.
Why?
Does warmth even exist anymore?
Or is it just an echo, a distant ghost—
Faded, forgotten, unreal?

All that remains is the cold.
Icy blue flakes swirling, enclosing,
Sharp as daggers, carving deep,
Etching their mark upon my soul.

And there it lies—the velvet box,
Soft, unyielding, and cruelly still.
It holds my heart captive,
Safe, yes, but untouched—
A prisoner of its own silent frost.

-fir.m