PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Gloomy is the sky, a most melancholy gray.
Cold is the morn, all warmth swept away.
A brush of wind, unrelenting at freezing pace
Deepens inside me, turning red my boyish face.

With windswept fury menacing air enters to fright,
Eager to swallow all with its heart-hungered might.
Coldly consuming, it devours all with sense of stealth,
Reaping warmth of limbs, gone their sun-summered health.

Placed beneath my body rests this cold, hardened earth,
Pressed against my heart, void of any mirth.
Lying here trapped in realms rainy and macabre,
As walls of warm less wind summon me to sob.

Reminded again of this requiem and its lore,
Hoarsely reminiscing its revenge of before,
When careworn crows carouse at play
And god-fearing towns refuse to pray.

But I know which days next will come,
As this hungered heart awaits a newer sun,
Beneficently brought like the farmer's seed,
Tilled and labored with intent to feed

All, like me, who yearn for a treasure
Replete with gleams only man can measure.
Until then, though, I imply: what now to try?
For last year I shared this same soliloquy,

With no reply.