Cold

The time is nigh. My return to dominance imminent. A chill wind blows, slicing through my paltry exterior and lacerating my withered heart. My soul's combined lamentations overpower the waning forces of naive summer, sucking the warmth from my despairing bones. Only the bitter aftertaste of my cynical breathe remains. I am the Cold. I am the sigh, the pervasive whisp of biting malice that is the precursor to winter. The Summer has Fallen. My depression rises to the task. The Night lengthens, the darkness ever creeping, always devouring more light each day like Death ravishing fleeting seconds of Life.

Still I hunger, still I starve. I crave warmth to soothe my brittle bones. I wish to mend the cracks and wounds so many blows have dealt my battered soul. But I am the Cold. My hands ice, slicing, stabbing, piercing the blissful skin, releasing my black blood onto the terrified, huddled hoards. I sigh and the world shivers. I gasp and the world cries out. I shake and millions are flung into an abyss of sorrow, hurled into the oblivion that is my aimless desire. I laugh my mirthless laugh and the world is shattered, an icicle reduced to razor-sharp fragments, the remains of hope, kindness, love, destined to cut and curse until they melt upon my defeat. Then I smile. I smile my wicked smile. My teeth bleak, pristine barriers to completion. My lips cracked, dissolving traces of former color, a red love reduced to a white soulless ruin. My breathe, painfully throbbing, in, out, in, out, up, down, up, down, down, down, down into the cavern of my miserable heart. Sorrow has long since died in that bleak, hollow cave, replaced by gnawing resentment, plotting, despising, abominating all that it shall never have.

My heart shines through the holes in my fading body. Blinding rays, knives hurled into the eyes and minds of those who can take no shelter within the souls of others. My sighs are hurled at me, bruising my skin, changing the vibrant hues to a putrid purplish mess, red shavings of past dreams dropped like blood from a dagger. I die. The bruises fade, leaving cold blue death. The shell still breathes. My hair, an ancient gray, reflects the harsh, joyless sunlight, a paradox of eternity atop a face of seconds. My mouth and its grotesque assortment of horrors smile their terrible smile. Then, another long, cold, soul shattering sigh and I burst into a thousand prisms, carried into the void.

I am Despair. I am Death. I am Cold.

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Heh, sorry, I had to. I thought of avoiding the horrible pun-like ending, but I simply had to! But yes, the above was inspired by Mr. Sugue's wonderful observation that the recent chill is the result of my cold, black heart. So blame him! Indeed, last winter was one of, if not the, worst one's I've had. Terror, love, wrecking my car, the hospital, daily chest bursting agony (literally and figuratively hehe. More of the latter, though, oddly enough). Kinda makes the present seem a lot better, eh? My hands will be frozen for much of the extent of the months, not that they weren't over the summer though. It'll just be more difficult to remedy. Gloves, gloves, gloves... Mental and physical, that's what I need. And I think I know how to obtain both! But indeed, winters seem more depressing that the summer. Although judging by my summer (heck, most of my past year), the season is a tad irrelevant. It's a season of extremes, for to fight the horrible cold, you often must risk being scorched in the battle. I'm ready to be burnt though. I'm fed up with being frigid! I think...

So until next time... Keep Warm!