In it comes like an icicle to the heart,
a moment when the air is crushed from the lungs
until reason is left shivering without a blanket.
Cold winter wind shifts through veins
turning the blood into muddy slush.

Cryptic thoughts murmering in vague voices
breathing frost upon the soul, begin to spread
their patterns upon the windows looking out…
while popsicle fingers grab your throat.

Confusion setting in as eyes glaze over
like an old mirror, or
the blinding light of winter’s white.

With every heart-beat comes the sound
of breaking glass or avalanche,
wherein the spirit must prevail
or shatter and become
the sound of fear.