Wherefore does the wind blow?
Whence did the season change?
One more damned miss
And I’ll be cast out this frame
What light will lend to such myths of folklore when a candle is snuffed out?
What god-fearing people once whispered around the golden flames of an open fire, instilling fear in younger generations to prevent sin?
When demons take over, how long can we let them win?
For what seemed corporal now lends no touch, it seems life has become an animated crutch
By Sam Fawcett
Parisian Poetry 