Mortality
stung by the bitter cold winds
freezing sleet
flesh from the bone
warmth
consumed by the black of night
gazing
upon a white-haired man
dead
frozen
I whimper
who is this white-haired man?
never to know if he were loved, or missed
gazing into his frozen, open eyes
black with a Ravens gaze
to whom do I see?
to whom I ask who am I?
gazing into my own frozen, open eyes
Copyright © Tom Cook | Year Posted 2018
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