Winter is near,
the cold crawls on my skin.
He has gray eyes like a wolf's coat,
and I am the rabbit.
Running,
bounding
towards him.
Deeper into the burrow
of his hold.
Words pierce like fangs,
drawing blood.
Spilling,
leaking
onto the white snow.
Scarlet red,
like his lips.
My chances are
a snowball's in hell.
YOU ARE READING
Titles are Overrated
PoetryThis is the equivalent of Notes app on your phone, so yeah, exposing myself. I guess it's considered poetry. Enjoy. :)
