Everything seems to have been glazed these days
From door knobs, through pavements, to benches and trees, lake in the park, and the hive for the bees
All swarmed by white pixies, blue dust, and white glass, longingly waiting for the feeling to pass
Although all that frozen, very little can feel, and looks like its waiting for more of a drill
For no hand or branch, or a blade of grass
Can run counter to coating with the Winter's arms


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