I started off writing poetry a long time ago, and once in a blue moon something strikes me that calls for a poem. Poetry is good for stirring up our descriptive abilities, so there’s that. Anyway, this comes from a dream I had about a month ago. Enjoy.
White snow, white fog, white breath.
Arctic winter, dead of night, dreamscape.
I walk alone, surrounded by mystery, clouds of fog, stillness.
Not even my feet make a sound in the snow.
I cross a street, the last of humanity in this world.
Shops and homes behind me.
And then you appear, running in the night.
White fur, white antlers, white hooves.
You run toward me, out of the fog, out of the night.
You run away from something else, something else.
This is your world. I don’t belong here. But something else is here too.
I can see it in your eyes. Your eyes of death. Caribou.
You stare at me, and I can see your fear. You who live in the snow and cold.
You who can survive when I will surely die. You will die tonight.
You run to me and I stand helpless. Not knowing what is coming.
But knowing that you fear it, and so it must be death itself.
And then I hear the bang. And I see the red.
Red blood, red eyes, red death.
You stumble, you falter, you fall.
You bleat in panic and raise your voice as if to say.
I belong here but you do not. Why must I die when you shall stay.
I don’t have an answer for you, my friend.