Poetry V. 0
Hypothermia
Robert W. Wilson, Jr.
Numb hands grip rigid blue walls,
stepping carefully on frictionless white.
Picture frames are frosted over,
becoming ancient silhouettes.
The wind howls, biting at my eyes,
winding from where two snowmen sit.
I glide, softly and silently,
as not to disturb their quiet contest.
Robert W. Wilson, Jr.
Numb hands grip rigid blue walls,
stepping carefully on frictionless white.
Picture frames are frosted over,
becoming ancient silhouettes.
The wind howls, biting at my eyes,
winding from where two snowmen sit.
I glide, softly and silently,
as not to disturb their quiet contest.
The Fire Inside
Andrew Massie
She was waiting for me
At the bottom of the stairs,
Cinderella lips pressed softly together,
Her eyes standing pools of morning dew
Reflecting scarlet light from the rising sun
“Are you ready?” she asked coolly,
Her earthy brown hair tied back in a tail,
Her body tight, ready for action,
Coiled in dissonance with that voice
And those deep blue eyes
“I am,” said [...]
Andrew Massie
She was waiting for me
At the bottom of the stairs,
Cinderella lips pressed softly together,
Her eyes standing pools of morning dew
Reflecting scarlet light from the rising sun
“Are you ready?” she asked coolly,
Her earthy brown hair tied back in a tail,
Her body tight, ready for action,
Coiled in dissonance with that voice
And those deep blue eyes
“I am,” said [...]
