The braying of an injured pack Howl outside. Their wailings whistle Long shrieks like banshees screaming. Bone chilling shrill, their calls Now spilling from my frozen fireplace. The halls, sheets slick like sleet Fleeting. Whispers rounding corners Sound. Yet, words escape my ears. Would tongues writhing with wound Jest - the vesper bells recalling lest I go unfound? Were you there from springtime Falling, as like a hallow awing cawed Me, from first eyes flit, stalling there then fluttered Past, like the windy boons of all Gales gnawing as truculent things gone Sailing ever paling when once held so steadfast?
© Sarah Gosa, 2015