Image by Mateusz Wyszyński from Pixabay

Prose Poetry

Winter Winds Playing Games with the Old Man’s Poor Heart

A prose poem

The never-ending clarion knocking
on the old rusty front gate
forced the old slumberless man
to come out of his warm bed,
and walked through the stygian darkness
of the night,
crossing the deserted gardens
of his abandoned castle —
which once had
blithe spirits and echoed bosky scents and blooms…