Winds of Torpor

My love has scales
Sleeps in the substrate
Buried below
Alive I fear gone
begs the question
What hath winter to do with sleep?
Or night to darkness chill
Fore-brain flights wake quickly
Sordid minds think faster die
Forced tormentor underneath
Nocturnal hemisphere
begs the question
Art thou the rude awakenings?
Basil soup heats filthy frostbite
Fire stuns synaptic slush
Thawing tomatoes explode the spine
Gills thrust zygotes into blue taxis
Icebergs crush career war officers
Junk dealer flames tiny progenitors
Soothsayers implode your bureaucratic heart.