Everything's frozen in sweet repose,
intensity buried beneath the snows.

I freeze the silent scream and
although it longs to be free,
I stow the key deep inside.

I suppose that scream might grow
and rise against the tranquil cold,
if it were not so utterly frozen
below the surface of my soul.

The ice blanket wrapped close
slows the cogs and gears,
replacing the clicks and snaps
with smooth rolls and flows.

All machinery calmed, movement removed.
It is much too cold to complain
with my mind reduced to a gelatinous ooze.

Everything's frozen in sweet repose,
freeze the highs, bury the lows.