Erik Wesley Kosmerl


Cold, bitter wind seeping under my clothes.
Chilled to the deepest part of my being.
The wind entraps my hair and tosses it like a rag doll; throwing it freely about, not caring.
Fall is unpleasantly cold, the Moon throwing shadows every which way, illuminating the lonely streets.
I walk alone, afraid of what lurks behind every distorted shadow. Every dank, dark alley.
My fear of darkness is ever-growing like the ivy clinging to the cold wall. One day I hope not to fear it.