I was going through a note book of mine today that I haven't looked since the snow stopped falling and found some writings that I completely forgotten about. I was surprised because I had thought that I hadn't written anything worth while in the winter and while reading this "winter" notebook, I realized that no matter what one writes, even if one thinks it is garbage, to keep it, because when one look upon it with fresh eyes, it may just start to glimmer and take shape.

These entries do not have titles, they are just what they are, I think they are just musing s from my muddled mind back when the winter had me in its grasp.


He looked into its eyes
and saw there, the fiery
pits of hell.

Nambus raged and rose
into the air with a flap
of his leathery torn wings
snarling.

And he was Shaken, to
his very marrow. With a
tightening grasp on his
staff his confidence grew.

Closing his eyes, he
channelled his spirit
into his crooked wooden
staff.


This Dream, this Nightmare

I dream of a man
who feels like a demon
his eyes, full of malice
and hate are locked upon
me.

He stalks me with his
clawed hand, screeching
and grinding along hunks
of jagged metal

He smiles as he spits
the twisted perversions
he wants to inflict upon me.

I trudge on, a boiler
smokes and steams.

I trudge on, a boiler
smokes and steams.

I trudge on, a boiler
smokes and steams.

This dream, this nightmare
becomes real.

A face twisted with evil
and scarred by flame
stops and mocks
"One, two, Freddy's coming
for you.



Now i see, just how
bad it is, everyday
we hear of young men
buying their tickets to
their afterlives, while we
sit back and watch
the minute hand slowly
pass us by. When
will we all stand up
and take action, make
our voices heard? Weren't
we the future at some point?



the wind kept me
up all night, whistling
that low morose
note through out the buildings
I woke up and it greeted
me good morning
as it danced through
out the trees while
i tread lightly on
melting snow morphed
into treacherous ice.