I'll start, with this oldie I wrote on the train in winter two years ago.
-Zero-
Cold grey concrete, snow and doubt, Buildings dead and wet throughout. Frost, barbed wire, softer now, flee from here, someday, somehow. White ice flowers, chilled dry air, Long-dead lights and the moon's cold stare. A coughing fit, blooms in mist, A town with death's cold hand is kissed.