Member Poem

                                          Crooked man
  When the night of December
  prevails upon me, a new hope
  blooms and fear flees.

  But the crooked man is still
  outside for it is born of my 
  fright, his wild eyes hiding
  behind the crooked tree are
  ready to take down my light.
  
  But don't you worry, morning 
  of January i'll keep up my light
  for it is born of my valour when
  fright was not at its height.

This poem was published on my blog at Medium.