The Winter of our Discontent – A Poem

Dark indigo snow packed tight on the forest floor

Tracks from an unknown creature are featured to and fro

Frozen branches in dead trees and they creak like old souls

A swirling cosmos that’s vacant, royal blue, and so cold

Black stratus clouds pirouette through the sky; silhouettes bold

Swept up by the wind, like waves that open up and then fold

The moon stands guard: galactic, crooked, gold

The stars are blurry and burnt orange wherever I Van Gogh

 

A chimney in the distance attached to a brick cabin

an old witch with white eyes and red lips like dragons

Sitting by a fire place, fucking with black magic

She looks up at no one, and mumbles something tragic,

She says: “there is no truth. There is no proof;

that you exist, We are accidents. Get over it.”

Then she tilts her head back and laughs

And the camera pans out…

 

There’s a wolf on a mountain, howling at nothing

A Fox eats a rabbit, tears out its bloody stuffing

A hawk swoops down, and snags a rat in its talons

A human starts a fire, wishing someone would see his talents…

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