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Description
The limbs of the trees and every inch of the bushes and spiralling weeds were covered by an immaculate, pristine frost. They looked like skeletons or ghosts, like the procession of the dead.

Looking to the bank, tendrils rose from the soil (just like the terror rising closer to home) thinking, as I swore I saw them uncurling, that they were the unholy proboscides of the damned reaching back to an existence that they had given up on.

That icey whiteness took over the world, coating it like the hard, sugared shell of a chocolate egg, forcing rescind to the colours of those that it clung to. Hue fled from them, huddling around the warmth of their still little hearts.

Cows stood in the field beside. They looked sad and quizical and they begged answers. Cows still instill a certain amount of fear, despite their familiarity.

As I walked down the drive I looked down at my scarf to see icicles clinging to it's fibrous coat, as frozen water grapsed the fur of my bastard bovine bretheren. I wondered, should I disintegrate right now, in a slow, creeping march, what would be the last of me to go? The grey waves of the heart in my head, or the mishapen cardioidal lump of a heart in my chest? Or would it be the distended spheres of my eyes of the tough, woody tips of my fingers?

If nothing else, I hope it's the joints first.

--

in b4 'this is a dev-ID, not a poem'.

Description
The limbs of the trees and every inch of the bushes and spiralling weeds were covered by an immaculate, pristine frost. They looked like skeletons or ghosts, like the procession of the dead.

Looking to the bank, tendrils rose from the soil (just like the terror rising closer to home) thinking, as I swore I saw them uncurling, that they were the unholy proboscides of the damned reaching back to an existence that they had given up on.

That icey whiteness took over the world, coating it like the hard, sugared shell of a chocolate egg, forcing rescind to the colours of those that it clung to. Hue fled from them, huddling around the warmth of their still little hearts.

Cows stood in the field beside. They looked sad and quizical and they begged answers. Cows still instill a certain amount of fear, despite their familiarity.

As I walked down the drive I looked down at my scarf to see icicles clinging to it's fibrous coat, as frozen water grapsed the fur of my bastard bovine bretheren. I wondered, should I disintegrate right now, in a slow, creeping march, what would be the last of me to go? The grey waves of the heart in my head, or the mishapen cardioidal lump of a heart in my chest? Or would it be the distended spheres of my eyes of the tough, woody tips of my fingers?

If nothing else, I hope it's the joints first.

--

in b4 'this is a dev-ID, not a poem'.