Creeping Cold

The cold grows fierce, warmth flutters away.

My heart skips a beat,

I feel near the end of my days.



Eyes glossed over and skin turned grey.

The fates hold fast the hair that's frayed.

The're ready to cut with their two edged blade.



The shears bear down, to snip the thread.

My breath runs ragged, the hallmark of death.



Two strands now hang, where once was one,

As my head lolls back, the fates work is done.



With eyes now closed, I see the light.

My will is gone as with my strength to fight.



Into salvation I'm delivered.

My mortal shell quivers; the cold setting in.



But on this ethereal plane,

warmth is mine to embrace yet again.