The Cold Owl
Cold, yielding, yet wishes to be undaunted, from the sorrow laden
that he forfeits. Ruthlessly he cries, flightless
he tries, but still is sitting, never flitting.
From that hunched shadow with the thousand yard stare that lies before him. No word spoken here, and not a single token from the moon are bequeathed to the owl.
The light o’er him blinds him and the wind does not
howl for him; for this lament is of whim, from a time much brighter on the other side of the moon. A time where the cold did not reach the old, and the roots dug deeper than those caverns of old, ...