cold outside
i sipped my death
it slipped
my breath
went old
all because
outside was cold
from death
was in the rafters
except she was young
except the stones were warm
that she stood on
no dour hooded sprite
better expressed
the way the night comes on
when lights outside
tempestious clouds
rid the barren grass of pride
i know i wish
i could say i know
the creaking sheep
under a bushel
weeping all lifes woes
the skull the entire head
plus all the bones
just wash our hawthorns
no longer fairies show
up in print let alone to roam
a dewy prospect
the man was hanged
by lightning streaks
for obscenity and the
way he speaks
the way we all just interlink
in snowy weather
buried deep
bigger thresholds of pain
for cold to rummage through
bitter bites of memories
to chilling dreams
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