the cold paints snowflakes on your skin
it paints its cold remarks
the cold knows only of the heat
it keeps it brushes on the shelf
where we lay
cold
no one here to see
our breath tingles in our lungs
on this planet spinning
round
and round
but who is out there
but no
no
the cold does not sing such a song
it paints with daggers
ripping through flesh
it destroys your bones with cracks
and only I would be stupid enough
to mistake them
for fragile painted snowflakes
and the world does not turn
but it has stopped
in it's tracks
lay pretty colored roses
made of silk
are we
here to watch the cold melt
or do we stay here
high on the shelf
