S’mores galore,
pouring forth folklore.
Sounding snores of waves on seashore,
flow to a door in the sand floor,
which leads to a drawer,
which leads to a map.
Uproar and implore,
this map is a treasure map that we must not ignore!
About the Creator
Rowan Finley
Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Expert insights and opinions
Arguments were carefully researched and presented
Eye opening
Niche topic & fresh perspectives
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Keep reading
More stories from Rowan Finley and writers in Poets and other communities.
Winter Up High
Upon the North, where winter holds its sway, The frigid nights descend with solemn grace, A silent, diamond dust along the way, And moonbeams carve the shadows of the place. The wind, a ghost that whispers through the pines, Doth chill the very breath that leaves the lip, The ground is bound by frosted, silver lines, And stars, like scattered jewels, their vigil keep. The long dark hours demand a sheltered rest, Where firelight dances on the hearth's warm stones, And weary souls are welcomed to the nest, To chase the biting cold from blood and bones. Yet in this chill, a stark, pure beauty lies, Reflected in the vast and endless skies.
By Vinn Blackabout 17 hours ago in Poets
Comments (4)
So goodd!! Brings all the right feels💗
Eating smores and giggling with my sister is the most beautiful thing about winters I love. I'm not a fan of winters, but smores? Love 'em 💖😋
funny
So much fun 😊❤️