Cold Knives

A few brief words describing my home.

Frozen fields.
A shattering pine.
Ice crystals lodged in my spine.

Ahhhh. Life.
It's bitter. It’s cold.
And I’m not even old.

My soulful enemies,
Wintry sprites,
On empty moon nights

Attack my will,
And batter me down,
Snowly, I start to drown.

Fickle, Fickle are they
Who think the U.P. is nice.
Oh, for me, it’ll never suffice.