The Chill

That sterile room again,

the air too thin and sharp.

It brought it back, a pain,

a phantom, chilling harp.

The metal disk so stark,

pressed flat against my side,

a tiny, frozen spark,

where secrets couldn’t hide.

It felt like winter’s teeth,

a sudden, icy bite,

beneath the paper sheath,

stealing all my light.

That cold that seeped right through,

a promise of the dread,

a memory that’s new,

though ages have since fled.