Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply.
Clutched in a slender brown hand, fingers gripping into its sides, the paper reads:
Cold, cold, the wind blows.
Cold, cold, the shadows dance.
Cold, cold, the snow falls.
Cold, cold, the ice strikes.
Cold, cold, my heart bleeds.
Do you hate me?
Lying half-buried in a broad expanse of snow, frozen fingers reaching for it, tired eyes straining to read it's words, the paper reads:
Hot, hot, the wind blows.
Hot, hot, the flames dance.
Hot, hot, the soot falls.
Hot, hot, the fire strikes.
Hot, hot, my heart burns.
Do you hate me?
Author's Note: The first poem I found in the signature in a very, very long chain email that I got a long time ago. I jotted it down, scribbled a parallel poem for it, and promptly forgot about it. I was flipping through my ntoebook and found it again, so here you are!
