By Samuel Canerday
Surely not, this spectre gnawing
At my feet, spiteful spirit of the snows
Though the ice has started thawing
The spectres lurk, their fury grows
Like the seeds their season killed
Up they reach to snare the living
A hostile world, frightful and chilled
No warmth or light, just cold unforgiving
What do they seek, these hateful things
From frosted tombs, fit for the dead
In drifts, and in ice, each spirit sings
Stain the snow, stain it all red.
About The Author
Samuel Canerday is a writer and amateur filmmaker in the time he isn’t spending reading the writing of others and watching his favorite films. He also enjoys hiking the many trails of the Appalachian mountains and spending quiet nights camping out in the wilderness.