Man Of Winter

He lives in a forest, tall bushes and fog
Sunlight, reaches the peaks of the trees
Early morning, the time where crystals coat the damp leaves
A winter squirrel, a chilling mist, a burnt, old wooden log

He rises early, at half past four
And throws on his winter cloths,
He starts the gas, heats the pot, consumes his broths,
On slips his snow gloves and his leather boots, he reaches for the door

With a swing of the hinges, his world awakens
The forest is dark, the air is gloomy
The crystals glitter in the creeping shadows, a familiar sight
Glass snowflakes trickle to the ground, soon to melt, taken

The mist surrounds him, the sky, a dark shade of blue
Snow crunches under his boots, like shattered glass
He moves swiftly over the frozen stream, a regular pass
His torch ablaze and glowing, as he makes his way through

And as the day comes to an end, skin numb and defeated
He returns to his cabin; and it’s darker still
He rests by the leaf of flickering heat, to roast his kill
And tomorrow, and the day after that, his days are repeated