Cold Hands – a poem


​​​​​​Delicious, the arms tingle with gooseflesh,

Creeping, wintry cold veins burn, nerves

Aligned with temperatures dankly frozen

Down to slowest Siberian hypothermic



Slow dissonance crawls, a torn waveform,

Oscillation broken, ripped envelope hoard

Glowing, opened without warning, dripping

In tingling trickles down every nerve,



Kelvin is no longer suitable to measure

The cold of these twitching hands, their

Virus all internal, manifest in feel

Without any warmth, or rime of frost,



Trap trick hitch distortion spikes roll

In strange forms melting along lines

Too stark yet unseen, the cold creeps

Like midnight hoar fractal patterns



Hell’s heart shan’t stand a singular chance

Compared to this temperature, measured

By degrees of vacuum, ice nebulae narrow

Holding the collection of space frozen


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