Teresa Dearing Poems
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Walk softly ‘cross these hallowed hills,
Wake not the spirits of dark chills.
As night falls ‘cross these harvest fields,
Where corn and soy, gave up their yields.
Fog now sends out her drifting hand,
To touch and chill the lowly man.
Light now a shrouded silver mist,
The moon griped in its mighty fist.
For in this land the ancient sleep,
Secrets kept the mysteries deep.
Walk softly ‘cross this hallowed keep,
Lest those spirits seek your soul to reap.
The Witch Of The Winter
The Witch of the Winter she calls to me,
Come lay in my cool, white softness.
So lovely and pure, I will be your cure,
For all the world’s sorrow and sadness.
No struggles, no pain, you can only gain,
Come to me, escape all of this madness.
Her voice in the wind sings a sweet delight,
As she calls me to lie on her mattress.
Soft and white in the middle of the night,