Misdirected ill.

It was in the month of December,

In a night so dark and grim,

The eldest branches the deadest black,

As the lamplight, glowed dim,

The snow raged with a blizzards scorn,

A hearthfire, a hearty pile, a stack,

The scent of soup to revive the heart then torn,

A remedy, for the afflicted soul that did lack,

A sudden thump on the door, the eyes to dart,

The mystery of what or may be,

To stir the beating of the once peaceful heart,

And to consider what the eyes did not see.

I placed my book upon the table,

My hand grabbed the nearest cane,

Not wondering if or I was even able,

To meet those who could come with disdain,

The sound of my footsteps continued so slowly,

The creaking of the wooden floor,

Steadfast, stable, every surely,

Until I saw what troubled before,

I looked out into the coldest night,

But nothing came in sight,

A confused look for what was truly,

Though the evidence said otherwise, despite,

I opened the door, low and behold,

An avian corpse lay near my steps,

Though so weird for it being cold,

My hand held my shirt straps,

A sigh of relief, the slightest tear,

The bird that I held near my chest,

Though my heart would no longer fear,

So this darting swallow, would not come to rest.

Somethings come into our lives for better or worse,

But one thing is certain despite how we’re hurting,

There is no success for an undeserving curse.

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