Ghost Walk
The ice and cold, Surprisingly, It burns. As the wind, Torments, With each turn. Blood there, Painted, On the snow. Prodded forward, Endless, Always on the go. Fallen ones, Death, Their only escape. Forward march, Hunger, Barely keeping pace.bite me Written January 14th, 2002 © on Jan 14 2002 12:56 PM PST, Phyllis Thompson 0 • 1
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"The ice and cold,..."