By Conrad Pierce
Ice on skin, atoms moving slower,
the space between them and mine is increasingly thin.
Black steel masking silver,
shell trapped behind shield, only under pressure will it ever yield.
To flee the compartment
and infiltrate the copious barrel pushed against my skin.
Controlled by a deliberating mind,
weighing the entities existence against his demise.
The immolation concocts his own thoughts and in his mind cries.
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