THE DEAD OF WINTER

In the dead of winter, Angles will not go,
to frozen lands where arctic winds do blow;
and what the eyes can see is only ice,
as far as one can be from paradise.
Dark secrets hidden, we are not to know.

This is a place that brings the mighty low,
and fears, like grapes upon the vine will grow;
O yes, it can beguile you and entice,
in the dead of winter.

There is no water here for boats to row,
and here you reap the very things you sow;
it tests your faith like rolling loaded dice,
to walk along that path, is bad advice.  
In the dead of winter...


© 2018   David Rogers