Cold…everything

A bit of a dark one, but with light at the end of the tunnel…

cold-leaves

A tepid,
Lurid
weak and whimsical sun
cannot
warm
me.

Icy tendrils
drive icicle fingers
insidiously
into my corporeal form.

Help
is not at hand,
As the Artic being
squeezes life away.

Hope is now
a distant dream,
As Darkness closes
all around.

But who is that
running toward…

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