The Cold of Fear

Cold is the tittering of befitted feet Cold is the meagre meanders of falling fractals Cold is the twinge of bitter blues upon reeling retreats Cold is the roiling retch of frostbitten flesh Cold is the weary wench of an incomplete belch Cold is the hoarded heath upon a ridiculed roof Cold is the eerie ebb of a trepid twitch Cold is the boyish bodice of meaningless man Cold is the bane of bountiful bone held of chain to vein Cold is the foiled figment of blustered breathes Cold is the iridescent icicle of purified pain Cold is the poignant punch of a sickened stench Cold is the frivolous fawn of bludgeoned brain Cold is the enticing ice of roiling rest Cold is the belted buoyancy of a famished feign Cold is the writhing wail of fraught forgiveness Cold is the desolate depth of ailed eyes Cold is the stringent stain of blotted blood Cold is the rouged rememberance of pelting prise Cold is the gaudy gulp of satin salvation Cold is the harrowing hurry of soiling snow Cold is the darkening winterous warmth of comforted coverage Cold is the heeled horn of the sinner's wretched woe And wretched be the cold of mutilated body, strapped to snow, falling in tow. And cold be the sorrows of selfish self.