The man marches on against the night,
each finger a victom to frostbite,
He cannot see beyound his own hand,
he struggles to breath in this harshest of lands.
The chill rushes in and seems to stab into his very soul,
the man keeps marching, but he is losing controll,
his footsteps lost to the snow in this land of no remorse,
Nature is bereft of compassion when she takes a cold course.
His vision is blurred now as his time slips away,
and his breath is frozen on this coldest of days.
A frozen figure remains as the cold moves away,
the man remains an ice statue, untill the first warm spring day.