He is winter.

He is the excitement that takes over.

His eyes are snowflakes, drifting in the wind, carpeting the land in a cloak of white.

His lips are the colors only shown by the setting sun, colors of pink.

The ice you touch is his skin, sending a shock up your spine, sending goose bumps soaring on your skin.

The air he breathes out is blinding, the fog blinds your vision, you can't see the soul hiding under his skin, you can't see the evil lurking.

While his hair is the color of the frost clinging to every frozen surface, you cannot see within.

You cannot see the soul that is as dark as the night sky.

You cannot see the heart, as cold as the thickest sheet of black ice hiding a lake of beauty.

Though his heart pumps, provides, it isn't blood with the gift of life, his veins carry black tar, tar that can be ignited at any given moment.

He is winter.

But if he is lit, he will burn with the most brilliant of flames, flames of yellow and red, orange and white.

Yellow represents happiness, he once carried it with him, but he lost it long ago.

Red is fury, anger he has been holding inside him for far too long.

Orange plays innocence.

The flame that burns the longest, the fame that burns forever is white.

White like the snowflakes in his eyes, white like the frost engulfing the world in an eternal icy abyss.

He doesn't want you to see this.

He wants you to be blind.

So he breathes his ice fog all around you, creating the image that he is perfect, that he is a snow covered field.

He walks around you, crunching powder beneath his feet, crushing the vision in your eyes, and he smiles, he smiles because he is keeping you in his trap, encased in his icicle lie.

He is the excitement that takes over.

He is winter.