A poem about the fate of a cold, mountain village. |
In the cold mountains, far away Something lurks beneath the snow Hidden from the light of day. Until no speck of sun will show This is where the storm shall stay. On darkest eve with newest moon Clandestine things so quietly start Dim eyes blink cold maroon The blanket of white begins to part Frost rises on a snowy dune As ancient power starts to rise A creeping wind begins to blow The air is rent with insane cries As the Arcticane begins to grow And quickly increases in size. In a quiet mountain town, One citizen was heard to say, “By Queen Matilda’s crown! Midwinter’s storm is on the way! Through north valley it comes down! The dragon has been unbound, Great power has been unleashed We all must stop this fooling around And go where we cannot be reached – Or in this snow we shall be drowned!” To the high town’s central tower People fled for safety and relief And before the end of the hour They all cried in disbelief When the snow began to shower As the storm continues to grow Villagers hid, awed to silence From the whirling mass of snow Causing unnecessary violence Like the Reaper out to Mow. One child stumbled in just in time Alive although unhappily she limps Feeling far from sublime For she has caught a frightful glimpse Of dragon soaring through the rime. With Arcticane at maximum intensity Mountain towns are the only meal That slake its pure immensity The entire scene is quite surreal With snow at highest density. In the cold eye of the Arcticane The dragon circles and loudly roars “This, you fools is my terrain Go back to fen and wretched moor For in snowy mountains I reign!” Out from the tower comes the wretched count Who stupidly and defiantly cries “We are the ones who own this snowy mount enough with your foul, evil lies of this land that you own is no amount!” Moments before the town in doom Was grabbed by cold and vicious claws And was forever encased in a glacial tomb The end was truly of the count’s own cause As the dragon overhead does loom The villagers rang the tower bell Loud, brazen, brass, and clear Just before the central spire fell And how many are lost that are dear Is quite impossible for me to tell The serpent, satisfied in complete Retreats back to the depths of the north He has consumed what he could eat. Inside where his power comes forth Calm winds and silence coldly meet. Maroon eyes close in the icy deep As the Arcticane rests quiescent in repose Over the dark town Death will reap A single, slow wind blows In the barren, stricken keep The silence is endless, empty and dark Where Arcticane’s storm leaves its ice Where Death swoops down in a deadly arc Where the brazen bell in half has a slice Where nothingness has left its mark |