Looking through my frosted glazing. A winters Sunday morn. The piercing coldness, so bitter. A wind like razor blades. And my somber music plays. The slivering venetian blinds, so bland. Hiding little of the external Arctic chill. A frozen sparrow lays on the sill, Ready to fall, on dirt, so icy. A meagre frigid offering, To the polar Snowlord. And I’m like a blizzard’s statue, Shivering to the core. Riveted by my eternal score, Leonard’s, Avalanche and more.   [Click Here & Be Scared!]