cold frosty morning

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frost

cold January –
my flesh, feeling torn from limbs
yearn for summer’s warmth

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50 Word Stories: Death’s blade

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Never has death been dealt so brutally. If this cold blade could talk, hearts would weep hearing the ruthless chatter emanating from its tarnished sheen, that cared not for the blood of vanquished souls, whose stain even now dared not linger less they share blame for fouler deeds to come.