Cold hunter's knife,
washed in a silver rain.
Threaded wings and pierced by those claws that cling
to the throats and hands of death.
Bold, brazen child
who said you could do these things.
Made from rain and light blowing in from space.
Now, to kill, and fight, and hide your claim.
Cold, haunted heart,
you dream of my warm embrace.
All the while carving with all your hate,
rage and bile to turn me cold.
But cold is home and I am winter;
blinding light and blasting horns.
If you want warmth, then I am summer,
but choose the one you're wanting more.