Fifth One

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2009/01/15

Frostbiting dobermen guarding the gate
bare icicle teeth, snarl frigid spite.
Blueglass slaps us awake. What I most hate's
having nothing left mine to do you right.

Brittle grip edged with thin lace of snow – 
At least we held tight to the morning, love.
Crisp breath barking mischief. On it clothe
the scent of your bacon amusing my stove.

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