The Awakening

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.