Sometimes she surrounds you,
Wrapping her icy fingers around your body,
Sending you chills that go up and down your spine. She secretly creeps in the shadows, waiting to devour her pray,
as the city light flickers and the snow begins to fall,
She drifts on it making fluffy circles in the sky,
Then... she reaches you, touching your fingertips and your nose, so every breath you take leaves a misty cloud that takes wing.
This is she. The ever lurking one, with no pity for the young or old. No conscience when frostbite takes hold.
This is the deadly she known as cold.
