Dribbles

These are things that did not become poems:

I used to be able to catch lightening
chase storms as they thundered over the hills
But I am weary now and
Winter is Coming.

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Time moves slowly due to frost
Even the moon is more tired with the nights so long
No one sits on the damp park bench
The grass forms a carpet of icicles

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I once climbed a mound of dirt only
to discover it was a temple.
I kicked a stone and it tumbled down,
terribly unholy.