05-06-2017, 05:02 AM
I'm in the 10th grade, and I started writing poetry a few months ago. I'd never really written poetry before that. I wrote this one a few days ago after reading the book To Kill a Mockingbird.
Cold
It was cold,
And I thought:
“A wrinkly, haunted man lives in that
House. But not
A feather that floated to rest on the fold.
Then trampled, crushed and left it sat
Alone, despised. A gust of wind
Wears through its veins," but in that house—
It was cold.
Still I shiver.
The iron fence
Still groans in weathered rust and gives
A lingered stench.
The solemn, cold breezes of autumn all whisper:
“A wrinkly haunted menace lives
In that house. Raindrops pecker
Down through my roof, but in that house—
Still I shiver.
Cold
It was cold,
And I thought:
“A wrinkly, haunted man lives in that
House. But not
A feather that floated to rest on the fold.
Then trampled, crushed and left it sat
Alone, despised. A gust of wind
Wears through its veins," but in that house—
It was cold.
Still I shiver.
The iron fence
Still groans in weathered rust and gives
A lingered stench.
The solemn, cold breezes of autumn all whisper:
“A wrinkly haunted menace lives
In that house. Raindrops pecker
Down through my roof, but in that house—
Still I shiver.