Whose voice echoes within me, A frozen silence that never sets free. I open my lips,yet no sound escapes, And I wonder if I've lost the voice that once shaped. In a blizzard of cold, my poems come to life, An icy wind that chills even the strongest of minds. It's difficult to hear the frozen words of another, And to understand the pain that lies beneath their shiver. The bodies of those lost to frostbite lay buried in snow, A voice called out, "You have no right To touch these bodies, born of winter's embrace." But they absorbed the cold and slowly released it, Until they were stilled by the harsh, unrelenting freeze. But in a moment, all is frozen, and their fate is told. What a tragedy it is to be consumed by the frost, To be silenced and still, like a voice that's been lost. It began with a voice, a sound so distinct and clear, But I can no longer recall if it burned or froze the ear. And then, it came close, a whisper of the cold, Revealing the truth that all life will grow old. With a great awakening, he stepped into the void, No longer afraid of the cold that destroys all. And as his dreams became chilled, sleep and wakefulness merged, A never-ending cycle of silence that still unconquered.
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