No Tale in this Gale

It howls, wordlessly, this void,

Like an endless winter‘s gale.

Ringing in the frost rhimed wastelands,

With no words of succour and no salutary tale.

And all we can do, is to wait,

Riding out the storms,

And abiding those who mock,

The poor ink-stained fool,

With his infernal writer‘s block.

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