Arisen from it, askance from death yet akin, here it is yet again. Winter never ends.

I am one thing yet two, a cracked glass,
The fire of a phoenix and the ashen aftermath.
It's at once a cypher and so very simple,
Poetry that's simultaneously eloquent yet blunt and flat as bricks,
A cold and ham handed trick,
Heavy yet smooth,
Walling away a soul with morose and malign intent,
A vase and a rose.
Was it destiny or something you chose?
It falls like snow,
Soft and silent.
Both, and why I'll never know.
Ah these chains, so cold and so slick.
Doom and damn Mr. Fox, you're all of it.

Hope you don't mind I indented it.