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Cold is blue — the shade of glaciers,

of dripping icicles, of lips drained of warmth.

Red mittens collect frost upon their wool

and glitter. Snow falls with a hush, compacting

itself upon evergreen boughs until,

too heavy, it clomps onto the ground.

Laugh, shout, scream — and cloudy puffs of breath freeze,

solidify into an intricate web work of ice, then collapse

into gravity's embrace and shatter upon the sidewalk,

fragments spreading with a soft sound, like a tinkling of tiny bells.


Author's Note: This poem was written in response to the prompt "Shattered Scream" from @AngelHeart111.

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