I am still used to cold winter nights. I am still used to, Curling up. Wrapped up in blankets, And my own craving for solitude. Trying to contain the warmth of my own body.
But I wanted to freeze, I sought out To banish that Whispering serpent, That, devourer of men.
It would watch me each of those nights, Invisible eyes haunting the air, Of my shrinking room. I would realise, Time and time again, That the nibbling cold Was not the cold at all, But instead the Tongue of this creature, Tasting my farthest longings.
Its breath would startle me awake, Blunt and short. My exposed skin would tingle, Awaiting eagerly, deliverance From my awoken self.
I have yet to banish it. Maybe, I can only try, Again and again, To not let it take me Into its gaping maw:
I could become a tasteless thing, So that it would no longer desire my flesh. I could give in, And never have such a moment again. Or maybe, I must simply keep weary, Of those cold winter nights.