126
Hey there!
I've been bored lately, so I decided to write a poem. I hope you enjoy it! (Yeah yeah. I know my cover image sucks.)
The embers of the fire slowly die,
Casting their last, faint glow upon the walls—
As the adamant snow continues to fall,
Draping the countryside in a shroud of white.
Athwart the darkness, the air is algid and brisk.
Unforgiving and bleak,
As such there can be no joy.
It seems that the very trees in the forest
Wail with dread—
Having to bear the weight of the snow,
As it tenaciously crushes down,
With neither remorse nor sympathy.
Meanwhile, a doe leads her fawn across
The treacherous landscape,
Struggling to keep her young safe
From the flurries and shards of ice
That the wind so listlessly passes along.
Albeit, as the snow continues to fall,
The land becomes more bizarre,
And her chances of finding shelter diminish.
Hereafter, it cannot be said
What will become of her.
Alas, the embers crackle and pop—
As they fizzle and burn out,
Leaving the room dark and barren,
Where nothing but the sound of
The wind can be heard.
For this is the winter’s night.
Rigid and abiding—
As it has been for all of time.
© Copyright 2017 Victor Frost
I've been bored lately, so I decided to write a poem. I hope you enjoy it! (Yeah yeah. I know my cover image sucks.)
Text Version
The embers of the fire slowly die,
Casting their last, faint glow upon the walls—
As the adamant snow continues to fall,
Draping the countryside in a shroud of white.
Athwart the darkness, the air is algid and brisk.
Unforgiving and bleak,
As such there can be no joy.
It seems that the very trees in the forest
Wail with dread—
Having to bear the weight of the snow,
As it tenaciously crushes down,
With neither remorse nor sympathy.
Meanwhile, a doe leads her fawn across
The treacherous landscape,
Struggling to keep her young safe
From the flurries and shards of ice
That the wind so listlessly passes along.
Albeit, as the snow continues to fall,
The land becomes more bizarre,
And her chances of finding shelter diminish.
Hereafter, it cannot be said
What will become of her.
Alas, the embers crackle and pop—
As they fizzle and burn out,
Leaving the room dark and barren,
Where nothing but the sound of
The wind can be heard.
For this is the winter’s night.
Rigid and abiding—
As it has been for all of time.
© Copyright 2017 Victor Frost
| Credit | Victor Frost |
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