Dark Clothes

Whelp of winter! Traipse through those throngs of white-tongued conifers! They are bending down to challenge your every step. Birch totem-wraiths hiss in harmony with the wind, and with hoary bellows burn your cheeks red. You have no patience for numb legs and blackened fingertips. But they have imposed themselves upon your temple. The monks of your viscera have donned their dark clothes. The internal burial has commenced. The cadence of your jaw echoes between the bodies of your wooden detractors. Molars and canines sewn into a skinless smile stretched from lobe to lobe, sinister and fresh. Waning whelp of winter! Your form has cracked and fallen under the ice, now lost among the snow dunes. It can follow your entrails. They are trickling out, black and hypnotic. It can follow you now. The bleached sun is mute behind slinking grey papyrus, having bestowed the power to blind upon the snow. It can follow you. It is close, so close the chanting of the monks is deafening. The whistles of their throats rattle up into it's skull, whipping it's brain to pulp. They have donned the white clothes, frosted and cold. Be still! And lie tumescent beneath the dunes, as the trees sigh in their permanence.