Icy cold wind walks.
Blinding sunshine ironic,
Burning horizons,
Promises of warmth
Unfulfilled in morning’s cry
Of grey storm cloud’s tears,
And then nothing left
Of fires or dreams curling,
Blanketing round us.
Winter’s Grief
Icy cold wind walks.
Blinding sunshine ironic,
Burning horizons,
Promises of warmth
Unfulfilled in morning’s cry
Of grey storm cloud’s tears,
And then nothing left
Of fires or dreams curling,
Blanketing round us.
Driveling twaddle by an old flapdoodle.
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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Thank you!
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Always happy to read and share your posts with followers, My Friend!! 😘💕🌹😊
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I LOVE the “blinding sunshine ironic”. Brilliant oxymoron-intent.
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Thank you!
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Such a beautiful poem… In its melancholy there is a beautiful imagery. Great work! ❤
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Thank you. I am honored you thought it so.
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