The flames from the fireplace ferociously heat my backside,
As I keep my sights upon the desolate wintry fright.
Frigid and wisped, the wind blows the panes.
While my fingers trace a few letters on the bitter frosty bays.
A glacial heat vibrates through me rolling electricity through my spine
as a crack from the logs sound out from behind
But I stay staring at the bleak December we waited for.
The one that you have spoken with such fervor before.
The one with a few horrid ghost tales of talking black birds that you so abhor.
Leaving me to crave and rave for a haunting much like yours,
I wrote upon the wintry glass, nevermore.