Bone Cold

[Quixilated]

The outside blackness does not stare, 
It simply waits, with its bone cold. 
The bridal net it wears may mock, 
Its face a fair and polished glass, 
But I am old, and bone tired... 

The multitude may never pass, 
The blue street blocked, the clouds mired. 
A chill from All-ways Death grips me, 
Its patron saint sat by the church: 
A suicide from 1410. 

Whatever beasts may roam and lurch, 
What scares one more, than teeth or men, 
Is outside blackness cast like stone. 
The hours by this small window 
Are as an embrace: cold, and slow.

Hi, I don't have a ton of critique.  Just wanted to say, first, I really enjoyed reading this.    I think your best stanza is the last one, I think it could stand alone.  It sounds like the cryptic words of doom that a mysterious hooded figure would say to someone right before they had to go out into the darkness to face an unknown foe.  *shudders*  And also you are so right, there is something incomprehensibly terrifying about the heavy darkness of a cold night.  I love "What scares one more, than teeth or men,/ Is outside blackness cast like stone."  That little bit is going in my pocket so that I can think it on dark nights.  

I was really confused about the whole patron saint by the church thing.  Is this a local story, like something the narrator seeing out the window?  Is there a patron saint of death?  I think you could take out the middle stanza (but maybe keep the "chill from All-ways Death grips me" and fit it in somewhere else?), or if it is essential to the tale, maybe find a way to clarify what its about?  Or maybe it is only confusing to me.  I guess see what others say before doing anything drastic.  

Anyway, well done.  I very much enjoyed reading.  

--Quix