Handed to the FrostNovember 30th, 2010 by Sharkchild
I was once quite warm wrapped in blankets and scarves. I had a beanie on my head and mittens on my hands. There was even a fire in my thoughts of coziness and home—a place where I dwelled, comfortable even amongst the most torrential of storms. The Frost could not catch me no matter how hard it tried; I was just too well bundled, soft, and dry. I would laugh at the Frost because laughing was warmth and if something was warmth, then it was for me to perform.
But one day I awoke to nakedness unknown; some thief while I slept had come stolen things sewn. I had lost my blankets, scarves, mittens, and beanie. There was nothing on me but the grip of my enemy. That Frost held me and caressed me and toyed with my flesh. I could not escape it, not even with what I thought was warm breath. I had never felt such discomfort in all of my life. I thought surely that I would die, but the Frost upon me knew more than I. I kept on living and living and living in cold. Another day would end while a new one began.
That place in my thoughts once filled with flames was now a cemetery, stone frozen and cracked. While inward I died, outward I lived. I rasped with a cough because that is the sound that Frost made me make. I just stood without reason; I stood in the cold. In the cold I grew old, and the more old, the more cold.