I have worn this shroud
For long enough;
The darkness of death
Has clipped my wings,
Weighing down pasty white flesh
Cold, prodding like fingers
Kneading, massaging skin
Into shivering numbness.


I would hibernate
Sleep until the warmth of spring
Brings life and colour again;
But I am not allowed escape
I must suffer a polar landscape
Inside nature’s fridge;
Live through this cleansing freeze
Dull and lifeless like the trees.