The Touch of Frost. (Cinquain)
By Andrew Hide
The frost blankets over, all left standing by morn, caressing, both alive and dead, so cold. The grass becomes as glass, brittle under foot fall, webs, dress glazed blades in chandelier, ghost white. Mirrored, solid water, ice covers silent pond, making liquid firm to the touch, dead still. Covered, is my bare skin, ice fingers, penetrate, deep into my flesh, awaiting deaths warmth.A survivor challenge. Written March 31st, 2002 © on Apr 21 2002 10:02 AM PST, Andrew Hide 10 • 0
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"The frost..."