The air shrieks its way over the land like
some mythic beast in search of vengeance. She
bears her fangs, not in mere show, but to strike
and draw blood from whomever she might see
who dare to cross her path. No pity will
she show, for she has neither heart nor
ears to hear the cries of her victims. Ill
intent is all that she ever bears for
the living, for she herself has no life
but howls in a ceaseless, sentient death.
She would destroy all warmth with the sharp knife
of her icy, incompassionate breath.
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