Cold, alone, I struggle against the pointed dagger of the wind,

My wrists are slit by this invisible, vorpal weapon,

And I stumble on the welter of pure white ice below,

Yet inside, a mighty conflaguration of will burns.

Black is the colour of insensement, power, and burning desire,

For the turbid fire of anger is what burns within,

Playful flames flicker like silk in the wind,

Yet all souls are an irascible black, alone, uncontent.

Intelligence is dark, malevolent, and sly,

A vixen whose divine elegance is unrivaled,

Within each being is this calculating sentience,

A voice that whispers one's distant pipe dream.

White is empty, unconsious and emotionless,

My soul is the ship sailing this eternal whim,

The ice outside is closing in, the blizzard of shame blows menacingly,

A lurid white dream, a lackadaisical nothingness.

A glowing black nimbus of strength surrounds me,

The flames within dance to an ancient rebellious rhymthm,

The darkness swells, a natural benediction,

So that I may continue the struggle of survival.

For reality is white, an uncontrollable descent towards death,

No other futile existence is important,

Only the implacable darkness within alludes towards meaning,

For outside is a withering, anemic world.

By James Womack