Cold.
So cold-
told
by an  icicle, so bold.

Why the destined
that has been chose,
is the qeustion that will need to be defined?

Lips turn blue.
They were such a sweet pink.
Lips who
once spoke, a link
of beautiful prose.
Thy lips that sang so sweetly,
that once kissed a rose.

But now, all that can see,
is this icicle covering
such a beautiful painting.

A coldness smothering-
this once real life Mona Lisa.
More devastaing than a;
shattered piece of glass.