Sulking

Shhh, there is Quiet.

The Quiet sound of Cold, as snowflakes tap tap lightly, ever lightly on the ground.

Unremitting, there is Fright.

The Fright of the Unmapped, whilst seekers venture bravely - yet their bravery unfound.

Lulling, there is Death.

The Death to those of Ill, then flowers sprout from bodies and enhance a calming balm.

Know also, there is You.

The You reading this book, written by a poet, yes, a poet’s daily sulk.

Author’s Note:

Written spontaneously during lunch, then made pretty for the contest.