The Cold, The (War)m

It sticks like

bright blue candy

deep under my nails,

evading sludgery within my muscles,

crystallizing in my bones.

The Cold.

 

Only perceptible through the

absence of itself, it crawls along

zombified,

waiting for my blood to become

solidified:

one perfect pudding

for their death day celebration.

 

But it is too slow.

Too not alive unlike The Heat,

quick to analyze the lazy guerrila tactics

the blueness relies on.

The Heat dons fleece armor and,

shotguns cocked, beats out

a steely tune,

gunpowder the only blue

now alive and thriving,

eating The Cold with its

ravenous clamor.

 

I am warm.