Warmth nor Light

He lay in bed one eve,

slumber a hope long given up,

heart beating a tattoo

on his still chest.


He stole a glance outside,

wondering when he would arrive,

that old saint that rode

but one night.


He heard a bump, a thump, a noise,

a sound outside,

like scratching feet

upon a floor.


Without a thought,

he jumped up to see

whether the morn held gifts

or sadness.


He peeked out beyond the door,

searing his nose in the cold,

confused by lack of warmth and light.


For there was fire,

the flames, how they leapt!

White as snow and colder,

they ate.


And in the den he beheld a thing,

that puzzled him,

for why would his parents be sleeping

on the ground, in a fire?


The icy flames made no sound

as they ate the silver tree.

He made no sound,

confused, mouth open.


Then strode in

a beast, dull green.

Its eyes two disks

of purest white.


And he made no sound

as he fell, against the wall,

praying that the beast might

pass him by.


Its talons scratching, its tail swishing

its eyes searching for him.

It turned, looked down, bared its teeth

in a wicked, icy grin.


Then he ran, back to his room,

back to his covers, his blanket,

and prayed to wake,

so he might live.


The icy flames made no sound,

as they ate his covers, his blanket,

and he looked up once more,

into those disks of white.

The End

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