A Frosted Poem

It’s a Living

.
In a cold corner of hell, packed
with shivering souls,
stand chilled remains
here so long
they no longer note
the whoosh then slight chatter
of glazed fog
falling to the floor
as another late Mr or Ms
meets life’s harshest deadline.

I sweep the frost
from the floor
and try
not to look around too much.

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6 thoughts on “A Frosted Poem

  1. “life’s harshest deadline” — I like that! Never heard it before. This one made me smile, thinking about you in frozen Wisconsin.

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