The wind is cold,
The snow white,
The tree looks gold,
In the sun light.
The branches are bare,
The bough a white-gold,
Her skin is fair,
As she'd been told.
Her body is still,
Her lips ice blue,
As she leant against the tree,
The birds no longer flew.
Her eyes are dead,
Her hair turned-white,
Where she was lead,
Was the woods at night.
Her cloak is red,
Disguising the blood,
From where she bled,
Is the purest bud.
The punctures in her heart,
Four of them at most,
Broke her in part,
Fractured like art.
A single tuft of fur lays on her chest,
Almost as grey as the stormy sky,
That is even darker in the West.
Saying it was human would be a lie,
Even at best.
It is from a beast,
A wolf dressed in clothes,
Hungry for a feast,
The girl would be tasty,
It had supposed.
The cloak she wore,
A gift from her grandma,
Though strong, even it tore...
Under a wolf's sharp claw.
(Original)
Hey, this is one of my favourite
ones. It took a long time to write, hope you like it.
_dont_steal_my_food_
YOU ARE READING
Original Poems
ŞiirPoems I write in my notebook. They aren't brilliant but they're not bad either, hope you like them. Sneak peek: "Blood dripping from a Rose, Is like seeing an angel cry, It's unholy, never to be seen, It's heart has bled dry." All original, no copy...
