When will the cold bite of Winter's wrath cease? The cold unfolds upon the night in a blanket of frost that thrusts it's discomfort through every fabric of my delicate form. Even the moon doth seem to come forth to cast her shadows upon my body, to spite me. And the frigid winds blow down my back and again up my spine. Oh, will not the sun ever come to visit this place again? I mourn the memory of our last kiss, the loss of the burn, she smote upon my cheek, so many months ago.
Unknown "uncreepy" Curious - 17 years, 9 days ago