Wandering Poet: Cold

Cold feet drag along the cold ground. Cold fingers fumble with the keys, the blast of hot air from inside searing as if it were the pure fire of judgment from the Valar themselves. Boots hold feet that long lost their sense of feeling, clomping along the stairs clumsily. A door is barely pulled open and closed with a hand that has turned bright red with the warmth. Cold shoulders shrug off a robe nearly frozen stiff with the night’s snow and ice. A cold body falls into bed, the warm blankets and sheets scratching like fire against the near-frozen skin.

No dreams tonight. Only tears that were frozen inside that would eventually thaw, and an eventual slipping into the dark void of unconsciousness.

((Melodramatic? Yes. Slightly over the realm of reasonable reaction for what happened? Yes. But he’s a young, flighty poet. He overreacts a little.))

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