Hell Is Cold Poem by Shannon Walker

Kissie sounds, small and tiny,
The telephone line goes silent,

But not the wind whipping might
Of the arctic blast; what she meant,

Love, and words lost like keys
In the snow by accident.

Ghoulish skies, polished steel,
Ice an inch thick on the pavement,

Forty-five mile an hour
Winds at - 5; Winter here is violent,

And the short silent space
Between goodby, and my descent

Into madness
Terrifies me.