poem

the wind it howls through darkened night
and questions stir invading sight
making clean truths once told seem not
turning cheery ways to rot
blurring lively jumble and noise
boldly you turn but then lose poise
for standing there in winter's grip
a fear so foul that screams do slip
from throat to tongue and tongue to air
wishing hard to not be there
hands they clutch and eyes they close
body trapped in a frightened pose
then warmth and rapture wraps around
then a voice that's cold with satin's sound
holds before you calm delight
and questions stir invading sight
making clean truths once told seem not
now ensnared in dark's deep plot
and though the fear makes pure blood freeze
all his gifts they glitze and tease
and before too long look out behold
another poor soul is dead and sold