A Cold Demise



 It is not the cold stare of ice-blue death
 
 Nor dagger-like jaws that salivate at my scent
 
 Nor even the snarl of the disenchanted
 
 That worries that lost and lonely soul
 
 But, instead, the crying of the unsen others
 
 They who wait for the command to feast
 
 They who run wild, yet still must obey
 
 I pity them in my subzero demise
 
 In truth, we are so very much alike

Iceberg Love


 It is not the ten-percent,
 The visible ice-cold facade,
 That proves a person’s love for another.
 No, it is the nine tenths that goes unseen,
 The invisibilities of love that takes precedence.
 It is the hands held beneath the table;
 The whispered words at night;
 The smile when it’s needed,
 All the little things that build to a greater whole.
 Yes, iceberg love may seem cold to the unaware,
 But that outer calm masks an inner serenity.
 When all is said and done.
 To sail the ocean of life undiminished, One’s outer facade is only ever that: a facade.
 Remember what’s beneath those chilling waves
 Keeps the top afloat through oceans of hostility,
 And always remains strong.

W-Ill

Sorry at my absence,
I’ve been feeling rather ill.
It came down to a battle
Of body against will.
But I think the body’s beaten,
And will has won the day.
At least, that’s what I’m hoping,
As I want to go and play.
My head was down the toilet.
The rest I’m not sure where?
But at long, long last I’m thinking
That I’m almost nearly there.

The Snow Tree



 The Snow Tree stands in stately repose. High atop a solitary hill it beckons on the winter. Striking North and to purity unbound, back turned to winds of less fantastical fare, the Snow Tree shivers with joy. Casting snowflakes from its mighty mantle with every subtle movement the behemoth chuckles in tinkling ice. The whole experience is, of course, one of magic, but aren’t all the best.
 
 How do I know, you shout? Because, my friends, it’s my job to collect the snowflake it sheds and cast them on to you. I gather the Snow Tree’s fruits of eternal winter and shall until I can no more. There is no greater harvest for one who loves the white, not gold. You can call me Jack, Jack Frost. I’ll see you very soon.