The MVC Literary Journal

Retreat heat to your freezing land.

You know it needs you, defrost the sand.

For to burning ice the earth’s enslaved.

Only when you’re around does it feel safe.

So warm our heart, warm our skin.

Let us leave the frozen state we’re in.

Just like sitting by a fire, we have you wrapped around our thumb.

We were a slave to you at one time, and now our servant you’ve become.

Poor warmth, our daughter, frostbitten sore,

Now that you’ve lost the thick coat you wore.

To keep you warm in the harsh winter time.

Hypothermic global warming, an oxymoron, and a crime.

Labels: 2007: Belles Lettres