Cold

On the icy wind I hear the cry
And feel the sadness of those who died
As winter fingers stole away
The promise of another day.

As snow blows through the rotten walls
And drifts along the creaking halls,
Mocking specters, who now in death
Delight in robbing me of rest,

Circle around my poor abode,
My only shelter from the biting cold,
Laughing at my miserable state,
Eager for me to share their fate.

My candle sputters in the gale,
And in its light I see faces pale,
Pressed against the frosted glass,
Waiting for the flame to fail at last

To enter in and steal my warmth
And leave me as a frozen corpse.
Then on the icy wind I’ll cry
Along with those who before me died.

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