I’m bored and I’ve got nothing better to do, so here’s a poem which wasn’t meant to be quite so depressing, but I couldn’t think of a better way to end it and I was running out of descriptions.

We found her one morning,
Sat in the snow,
With a coat of ice
Adorning her cheeks,
Like frost on a rose
That has survived the winter.
A delicate bloom was painted,
Upon her china cheeks,
The gentle blush of a ruby apple,
Done in swirling strokes,
To produce a never-ending display
Of youth and fruitfulness.

We found her one morning,
Sat in the snow,
With the morning sun
Glinting on her legs,
Like crystal prisms
That glimmers at the sun’s peak.
A shimmering sheen was painted,
Upon her glassy legs,
The icy glow of a dying fire,
Done in swirling strokes,
To produce a never-ending display
Of life and eternity.

We found her one morning,
Sat in the snow,
With the frost of death
Creeping through her heart,
Like sculpted ice
Before it begins to melt.
An icy coat was painted,
Upon her frozen heart,
The emptiness of a silhouette,
Done in swirling strokes,
To produce a never-ending display
Of forgotten life and death.

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