Cold

There are barren worlds where no joy dares to exist.  
A mental planet with a void for sun, the light is listless.  
Eternal winter snowed upon the corroded cartilage  
in my bones.  
A carcass of happiness lies shivering on broken stones.  
 
Blood.
Runs.
Ice.
Cold.  
To say I'm dead would be so bold.  
 
Pink fire grazes the horizon behind the evergreens.
Somehow a fuschia twilight is magically seen.  
This electric mauve light vanishes into the belly of the night.
 
Blood.
Runs.
Ice.
Cold.
To say I'm dead would be so bold.