Wendigo Poems - Poems about Wendigo

12/6/22 Let it snow Worldwide not just in Mexico No matter if it's one hundred or ten below Always set to go Ready to shred a foe From head to toe She thought she did but she would never know Because the thought didn't ever rose Still a mystery like the Wendigo It's no fault in the genetic code Losing my own mind No it's not going...

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Yeren for a long winter when the abdominable snowman just sasquatch of his feet yeti chowed down another bigfoot long hotdog ...

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...Johnny just shrugged, took out his Bowie knife, and started carving off meat for a meal. He built a fire and roasted back-strap, it tasted strangely like pork, and like veal? He ate until he could swallow no more, since he knew not when he would find a trail, even roasted more pieces to take along for the hours when his strength...

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Have I ever told you about my friend, a mechanic by the name of John? Oh, the countless stories that he can tell of the hunting trips that he’s been on. He’s taken down many a whitetail, but most people would be intrigued to know about the time that Johnny tussled with and then ate a god-damned Wendigo! It happened about ten years...

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The wendigo moves through the forests of night, Through haunts of shadows and dreams; Through dark valleys and past frozen rivers and streams Where it can be seen in the faint moonlight By the unlucky and the doomed and the damned. For it feeds on the souls, so old legends have said, Of the tormented, the lost and misled In the cold...

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As nights grow long on Lac la Biche, the lake it freezes, the snow it falls and the wind she always blows. Wolves howl through long cold dark, and prowl neath Aurora's flicker, yet fearsome more than winter and wolves there comes a man, no longer man, they call the Wendigo. The waning moon rose over a frigid land...

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It is the craving never satisfied, the malformation Of gluttonous starvation, the disfigured beast of emaciation. Hell's spiritually depraved wind walker, feasting on the Lingering slowing pulse of the flat liners final vibrations. Engorging itself on the fiendish terror, unleashed by this The devil’s own kindred son! Dare not look into his hollowed out eyes, turn away from This misshapen abomination, with...

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Beautiful roses come alive in the spring In forest of echoes nightingale will sing Rose smell is as divine as something one extol Their beauty is warm sets fire in your soul But winter will not be as easily forgot as flowers unveil The winter is time of difficulty but also of ballad and tale Beyond psychological doors open wide In...

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