2014 © Christopher Martin

A Blizzard,
where winds howl,
like a direwolf,
missing his master,
where light is consumed,
even in the layers of white,
no living seen out,
no dead can be seen,
only sheer darkness,
ruling in the cold.
a boy cries strolling,
in the snow,
they say he was lost,
a few years ago,
his cries are not of pain,
but a whimsical laughter,
to bring out the living,
and play in snow,
those who go,
never come back,
but their cries are heard,
like the howlings,
every same day,
the child got lost.