Winter Omens

If I could draw,

 

If I could paint,

 

If I could sculpt or sing.
If I could play an instrument, I would personify the misery that I feel

 

within Father Winter’s cracked cold hands.
His touch is rough against my skin, like steel wool.

 

His kiss bitter.

 

His voice rough and hoarse like an Overseer.
His lashing wind, burns my skin.The Icy arctic joins and penetrates my shields.

 

Cruelty cackles and conspires as well.
Such a troupe of odd cynical “gentlemen”, bring on my winter omens.
The only thing that takes pity is the soft gentle hum and fall of the

 

billowy flakes that touch this irritatingly blind white, chilled earth.
Within each gust,

 

inside each frozen bosom,

 

contained in each chill comes those bad omens.
Something that destroys families,

 

that tears hearts, that shatters homes.
A call for omens that cannot be stopped by;

 

colourful tasteless lights.Countdowns to the end of ANOTHER year

 

or

 

a chilly disgustingly sweet day for lovers.
Winter has been around longer then any of those damned things.

 

Learn to grasp- you better grasp it and see:

 

It is winning. 

It always does.

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