The Winter's Chill

Hayden Minor

The wind leaves me pale and frigid 

     Oh, how I long for bones not chilled 

They tell me of many months to come of this seemingly unnatural winter 
 

I wonder, 

     What has suffering, such as this, fulfilled? 
 

My hands have become ugly and vile I have lips so dry, 

they bleed when I smile 

     Oh, how I long for summer flowers not killed