The Cold

In days of cold, fields of snow
die the old, while young will grow
Spring will come, kill of the white
The suns hum, brings back the light
Come with me, to the field of death,
of life, we see, their final breath
We sit atop the hill, and- wait
Be still, for what the grim calls fate.

Hey NaRachel!

Okay! Your poem was a really neat poem. But I must admit that it confused me a little! The two parts of your poem seem weirdly separated from each other. For instance, you have fields of snow dying and then the young growing, indicating a kind of circle of life here (haha, I just got "The Circle of Life" stuck in my head). Anyway, that's a really nice circular pattern, because you're implying that life continues on and what dies will eventually be the catalyst of what is new.

Compared to the last part of this poem, it seems a bit weird because the last part, you don't really have the same circular motion of the poem. It seems to just end with the death and it's rather grim.

...do you understand why I'm a bit confused?

It just seems odd because the metaphor that you used in the very beginning didn't fit the rest of it.

Anyway, just something I noticed! Hope this helps.

Thanks, you're right it is confusing