Monday, April 28, 2014

The North

There is an urgent calling in the middle of the night,
That the north still owns my soul.
It is like the growling of a pack of restless, wild dogs.
It plucks me from tender sleep,
To a nightmarish land
Defined by isolation and the peculiar characters
The stillness draws.
Babies cry,
Wind howls,
And we are separated
By shifting, shattering ice,
And blowing storms.
I batten down the hatches of my mind,
To weather out the worst of it.
My spirit takes on the edge of survival.
I feel the frost-bitten burn of desperation.
Children cower,
Wolves circle,
Enter in the dark of a midwinter's day.
The north holds me in its frozen jowls,
And I can never slip away.

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