Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aug 2018
My mitten, I wear you in the cold, with the winds so speedy
deflecting pain from my threshold,
but the pain started to crinkle, was to intolerant and ultra lethal,
My mitten, collapse onto the ground, concealing the protector
that couldn't rebound, and there was I, a hand as numb as ice,
the price you take becomes a livid vice, with minimum sacrifice.
Written by
Julian D  M
(M)   
138
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems