As I read the white pages
I see the creeping cold
words, once bold
are seeping
through a gathering frost
that coats the pages
and ices up the meanings
The pages become brittle
and I hear the howl
of a gathering gale
in futured fractured chapters
Promised laughter
will be frozen
on the lips
Words drift upwards
to my watching eyes
and drip syllables
onto a whitened
and frozen tome
rigid, cold and still
I and the book now one
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