Frost In The Air

Genevieve Taggard

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Winter put his shoulder
To our door,
Nights are turning colder
More and more;
We are old–or older
Than before.

Poppied sleep and honeyed breath
Are an antidote for death.

If your fingers tingle
Hold them here:
Doom has drawn a single
Circle clear;
Lean to me and mingle
Fear with fear....

Poppied sleep and honeyed breath
Are an antidote for death.

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