The Cold

Excerpt from Addleberg Lang:

I wrote this poem mostly during a church service, because that’s the type of attention span I have. Anyone who’s been in Montana during the winter will immediately understand why I wrote this. And this winter has been especially cold, getting below -20 a few times; more than a few times if you add wind chill. And I’ll tell anyone who asks, I don’t like the cold. Or extreme heat. Give me rainy Fall and Spring days and I’ll be happy. The rest of the time I’ll be complaining, outloud and internally. But it was after I wrote this poem that I realized it fit perfectly for the Age of Winter, an era of ice and snow in Amentia. So, in this world and fictional ones, we’re all really, really cold.

Twas not the winter of gentle snow

Of lacey frost and crackling ice

Twas not the season of warm hearth fires

Of jolly companions and late night songs

No, this was the winter of the Cold

Cold, cold, cold

The Cold that bit, that Cold that burned

The Cold that gnawed and gnawed at bones

The Cold that drove good men mad

The Cold that shattered friendships

Yes, this was the winter of the Cold

Cold, cold, cold

The fight for food was constant and fierce

The weak were left for dead

Treachery ran rampant in the towns

And raids for supplies began

Weep for the people in the Cold

Cold, cold, cold

I write this now with shaking fingers

Chattering teeth and frigid breathe

My ink has frozen thrice now

But I must record this unusual Cold

I will write what no one else will, about the 

Cold, cold, cold

We can’t forget this odd event; the constant 

Cold, cold, cold

I wish I wasn’t so dreadfully