“winter is coming,” night’s snowflakes cry. the wicked season’s ice is roaring as the fires die and charcoal chills spill toward our wall. warning: the frozen barrier will soon fall.
HBO revealed you as we fed you and scurried to your rescue. such unpardonable sins! so true! such nonsense…
making us believe you died… you didn’t? i know! you’re waiting for emotions to subside but when kindness and our brains grow cold, this and more will show that you escaped the screen & stream, making your way into reality. now, you lie in wait –you fiend, sustained by our banality.
such fun… the violence, glorified quirks & kills, the dulling of good sense, –of the beautiful, of course– not the ugly and the currency wasters.
i’m ashamed to admit that you were fun, unlike watching the melting of glaciers. as we approach life without the sun, i thank you, and i’m grateful.
what? what did you say, again? is winter still coming? does it hope that i consent? but it regardless shall arrive…
when this final season comes, and with great relief the moon sighs, when all light from humanity runs:
i beg you, Bran Stark, just say goodbye… forget me on that night, erase all memory of me, just let it die.
–night king, lord of the white walkers will appear in a future book of poems and stories (release date | July 2020)–
travelers lose a little something of themselves to those they visit, then leave behind. what is lost becomes a journey’s wealth of gifts received in turn from hosts that unwind the love and knowledge voyagers take along, gifts they get to keep or share as they move on.
–the traveler will appear in a future book of poems and stories (release date | July 2020)–