stung by the bitter cold winds
flesh from the bone
consumed by the black of night
upon a white-haired man
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