By Aaron Thomas
Cold, as is the reaches from the nether;
The breach of warmth,
The tarnishing of green.
Oh behold, the blankets of rest;
May the ground below rest for a while.
Oh thy, my sun; radiating!
Thee powerful ember in the sky
You once grew life
But now no seed sprouts under your guise.
Instead, your powerful rays weakly shine
upon a field of white.
Whiteness and nothing but;
A disfigured landscape,
Void of all other shades and colours.
I call to each flake.
Are you one of beauty or crass?
Bring forth a world covered in polar rage.
Construct your icy prison;
For I am your prisoner.
Bring forth with you, the echoes of stillness;
The notions of an end.