In a cabin wrapped in snow, snowflakes melt upon my toe
Windows whistle melodies, vermillion embers softly glow.
As I rock upon my chair, sleepy embers start to flare,
Windows flap and shake their dresses, then a creak atop the stair.
What oddity is this? My relaxed hand becomes a fist
There's no one else inside this cabin. Yet I hear a subtle hiss.
Seeking comfort in my tea, my hands now shaking vigorously
Clasp the steaming porcelain and sense a cold atrocity .
Command my eyes to look away, although they fight and disobey.
Pupils creeping to the left witness smokey mists at play.
Shapeless figures gather round. I feel my chest begin to pound.
Like the embrace of iron chains, Doom has his hold upon me now.
Then a whisper in my ear tells me someone close is near,
asks me, "Where do children huddle", sends me waves of primal fear.
And I stop.
My fingers let my tea cup drop.
I stand without will.
And walk toward the window sill.
Outside I see a pile and I fear it's something vile
Alas, covered by snow. Curiosity does rile.
Shoeless and without shawl I run outside toward the stall.
I dig without a shovel 'til my fingers start to pall.
And pall is what I find of the most atrocious kind.
My own brood lay underneath and stabbing memory floods the mind.