By Joshua Gay
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A shadow oft besets me and makes fearful attack,
But like a shade in the same way this phantom is but lack.
Often it sails at nighttime, and sometimes at midday,
And even when inside my den can I become its prey.
Mere metal solely aids it; it seeps through clothes with ease.
It rides upon the very air and strikes within the breeze.
Its chilling, frightful presence makes men turn red as rose.
It bites and nips the digits and nibbles on the toes.
It circles round the fingerbones and travels down the thumb,
Seeping like foul poison that gives feel of dead and numb.
What manner of a specter has the reader just been told?
I tell you plain clear to explain: the shadow is the cold.
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