One Windy Night


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The whispering wind began to scream
piercing through the night.
The crippled trees swung to and fro
longing to be upright.
I heard his footsteps one by one
tapping on the ground.
Slow at first then they sped up
I warily turned around.
My tongue became redundant
my screams could not be heard
my legs, useless appendages
unable to move forward.
The last thing I remember
was the colour of his skin
white as alabaster
cold as icy wind.

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Wendy Pratt

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