We are well off the map right now,
Far beyond the vigil of the compass,
The epitome of inhospitability,
Stalked by blizzards and hungry things,
There is no day and night,
Only biting ivory,
Torrential cold thorns from an empty sky,

Upon the alpine fields of snow,
Hemming us in like trapped seals,
Lay countless bones of victims both human and livestock,
Fodder for maws that know no sating,
And footprints of collosal proportion,
We still hear the quakes,
Though that too could be our throes of fear,

There are horrid things here,
Primeval beings of feral glamour,
Walking titans of dank fur and sinew,
Possessed of hunger no natural thing should,
Unabated by the encroaching white tempest,
Weathering it forlornly in their hunt,
Their hunt for us,

And as the roof of our shelter is ripped skyward,
We know the trolls have found us,
The next moment will be all screams and teeth.

Comments
  1. Brilliant imagery! Oh wow!πŸ‘πŸ‘πŸ˜Š

  2. Carol anne says:

    Great poetry! Well done! ❀

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