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.