Tasteless icicles dangling from winter’s spit, served in buckets of slushy footprints that lead to cloudy dough of white.

Splashy airiness always delight the dimly-lit sky that changes mood upon the fancy of viral emotions. One minute blue, without the puffiness sailing silently through moony glow. The next, swishy branches beckoning to the chill of gray that wets former pedals with powdered sprays.


Deep freeze balls gather in clusters that harden when gazes last too long. Friction of global tyranny mixes with hysteria of nerves as red blood merges with climate hacks as the ruler of all shakes his yellow cap, and issues the word that chill.


Colorless popsicles hang with threats of popping when the cool and collected fever increases temps to a cackling reception.

We don’t need the embrace of moderation with the solace of emptiness that turns to foiled attempts of rescue. The fallen who are locked in panels of furnaces, talk to you when you listen without prejudice.


Wintry fortresses erupt in the darkness of silence as the soundtrack of glazed icing spew out of trees once the rustling continues, and the uncovered gatherings sweep into imposing formations.

Take one step into the light and the fall will break the shell you fondled with the trickery of your immortal fold. You feel like you moved but you didn’t. You can’t. Not until the volcanic sea rumbles the map of you into shimmering crystals that gather fireworks from bottom to top with heated fury.

You feel like you screamed but you didn’t. You can’t.


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