Captive

“Stay here,” she says, her bony fingers firmly
Wrapped around my neck. I look into her
Fleshless face. I am the prisoner of winter,
And of age. The two are one: the crone
Relieves me of my spirits and all thoughts
Of ever being spry or bright or warm again.
I will, instead, draw downward with her,
Toward earth, a chilly home. “You needn't
Wait for spring,” she chuckles. “You've used
Up your claims to that. Be sweet and follow
Me into the bed that I've prepared for you,
And close your eyes. Your time has ended.”
Her hand opens. My neck's free, but I'm
Still frozen here.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 118 times
Written on 2018-12-28 at 01:21

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