In serpentine veins, a slither of glacial ooze,
A venom so cold, it chills the very muse,
It pulses through a chest where once beat fire,
A scorpion's frost, to sear and to inspire.

It nourishes the vulture, wings of night,
A raptor's gaze, a cold and bitter sight,
Its heart a desert, devoid of tender rain,
Yet thirsts for warmth that never comes again.

It waters the nightshade, a deadly bloom,
A lily's grace, with a poisonous plume,
It pulses through a bosom where no bloom resides,
A frostbitten thorn, in roses' warm hides.

But in this world where cold and warmth collide,
The cold blood sings, a harrowing, frozen tide.