Frigidity gnaws dully
like an outcast lion
scavenging on the bones
of its former pride.

Creeping nefariously,
it claws through any gap it can find,
sliding and slithering
through a hole in a fence:
a rabid dog.

It is thick, viscous and voracious
like some sort of anti-magma,
having all the properties
of a volcano’s foaming mucus
only lacking heat.

There is no frozen core,
as the whole is so consumed
with horrid chill,
the edges are no warmer
than the deepest depths.

Ice holds the same burning power as fire.