We are the last, the remnants of the void.
One by one the stars that birthed us have gone gold.
Behind us lay a million worlds, frozen lifeless rocks all.
Together we wait as the final sun flickers and fades.
As the days grow colder our hope also wanes.
We are pursued by a chill that will not fade.
It is a relentless death that slows the body and makes grotesque statues of us.
By Nicholas Byrley
I know I’ve already done a poem about the cold. But, I hate it so much. So I had to do another.