It was winter, it was night.
Snowflakes are pretty and white.
In the midst of the ice, there was a fight.
Fierce in the wind so chill it could bite.
Squirrels were deep in their borroughs, these folks had a lot of might.
Not fearing sickness, not fearing the cold, not fearing they might just end up seeing an early light.
Cumulonimbus drowns the navy sky, flakes dance like kites.
The Icy Night Wind blew, sobering up everything in sight.
That was it, they were done, without knowing who was wrong, or who was right.
The two muscle-heads left for home, leaving the cold mountain heights.
What could they be fighting about, on this bone-chilling night?
No one will know how drunkards think, especially on a Thanksgiving night.
BEAR
YOU ARE READING
Broken Lens
PoetryThe words of an individual that sees the world through a different angle, a broken lens.
