Thank you, Anni. Maybe I'm a masochist because I do like making things difficult for myself. I considered rhyming each line as well, but that was a bridge too far. Perhaps next time...
Midnight in Moscow
and the moon riding high,
dark as pitch the vault of heaven,
frosted breath upon the stars,
the crackle of ice underfoot,
pinging of the shrinking house,
the bedroom cold.
Turn on the heat?
Line count: 8
Free verse
For Express It In Eight, 06.06.23
Prompt: Write an ice-cold poem.
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