sly, cunning, conniving,
sneaky little gurgles emanating evil thoughts
create the stinging cold within my bones.
The feeling furiously flows,
viciously; slicing at my soul.
Unrelenting unease grows
and razors away parts of my whole;
seemingly never to be ameliorated.
Nevertheless, a query makes its dwelling
inside the core of my validity.
Possible for it ever to be alleviated?
The cold within my bones
freezes up my essence –
and seeps into my arteries.
Functionalities about to seize;
limbs – wintry; never heating up,
withholding pulse from the core.
Despite the balmy, steaming, overflowing cup,
I can’t warm up anymore.
© Annalinde Louw
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This piece was written on 18 March 2013