The cabin sits against the forest wall
hidden from human site, it stands alone
in the dead of winter, the cold has a jagged edge
twigs snap, upon a sparrow's landing
the freezing wind brushes painfully across the cabin
like an artist, whose hands are brittle with decay
forcing the branches to scrape along the upstairs window
like fingers trying to get inside.
the cabin creeks, showing its age
as it settlets in, for a long winter
outside, the wind continues to show its fury
as the cabin's walls whistle eerily, to see whose listening
the clock chimes downstairs
we are not concerned about the footprints, leading to the back door
they are of no consequence at the moment
but in a few minutes, maybe less
they will be.
the cabin stands alone
in the dead of winter
no one can hear you scream
the deadbolt turns....
Copyright © Kurt Kohls