The foothills have all been washed white.
The trees, all stripped bare to their limbs.
The dead covet my every breath.
Following a trail of campsites,
carried by a steady rhythm,
sinking down with every step.

The sun sets, the summit in sight.
The howl of the wind, harsh and grim,
serves as a harbinger of death.
Ascending the forbidden heights,
the silver sheets of ice begin
to glisten, like the mountain wept.

Step into the cave’s frozen maw.
Icicles adorn the ceiling
like uneven rows of honed fangs.
I do not fear the Ice Dragon’s call.
Falsehood fading away, steeling
my heart before the somber pangs. 

Too deep and too far to withdraw,
submerged to the waist in feeling.
Dragging my chain, its lonely clank 
filling the cavern, concealing
the percussion that my pulse bangs.

Enter a room full of mirrors,
reflexive but no reflection,
bright and yet with no source of light.
The first: a girl burns with fever.
Driven by the dream’s inception,
her desire begins to ignite. 

Written by Jungle, (C) 2022, all rights reserved.

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