The air hangs frozen, Winter with her icy fingers, will as thick as ice, a whim as fickle as a storm The stones beneath me, a black hole sucking and consuming every bit of warmth in its grasp It is moments, like these when you are uncomfortable, that you feel the most alive Pleasure will dull your senses, sugary cakes, lovers lips, warm beds, it is enough to get drunk on, and that you will It is no failure on your part, but it is here when the cold presses through your boots to your toes and reminds them of their fragility that you remember you have them at all Icy daggers hang above me, with no promises Will they or won’t they? Will their fall end in ice shattering or my blood splattering? it matters very little to them For if they fall, they will grow again and if they do not, well all the longer they’ll grow It is this persistence, this “unbotherance” I try to remember For I can be like a child and ball my fists with rage at life for all that it hands me But will I or won’t I?