Old Man Winter

Cold foreboding fingers encase me.
The gray surrounds once again.
Fingers bitten to the bone.
No thaw awaits.
Enclosed in the rapture, the capture of old man winter.
He beckons us to drone on...and on.
Frost no rest for the weary.
The body aches and moans.
Brittle to the very end.
Shall I survive?
Shall I quake?
Shall I quiver and wither or break?
I cannot.
I shall not.
My face is broken and swept with tears.
And fears.
Brought on by the pixie moon.
Encaptured in dust.
A magical golden aura.
Shall it bring beauty or pain?
Loss or Gain?
Silently I hear his cackle, his gackle.
Rambling on.
Approaching with sinister laughter.
Knowing that young lovers await.
Their hands entwined.
Countenance sublime.
Brutally he laughs at the greater days to come.
Working endlessly to entrance others to his gain.
His pain.
If he could only convince others to stay in his grasp, his clasp.
These cold brittle dry days will last and last and last.