Wake Me When It’s Winter

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

They call aloud with happy tone
“Come, leap from shade and frost!
Shake the cold from soul and bone!”
So I know the fools are lost.

The blooming flowers spread their ploy
Heralding the coming thaw
The wickedness of springtime joy
Chills me to my core

Let the north wind take me to flight
O’er laughing faces and merriment
Away from scorching, summer light
And speed the days of long lament.

Let me sleep away the warmth,
And wake me when it’s winter.
Goodbye, farewell, so long at last,
And wake me when it’s winter.

Blue-Eyed Devil’s poem was written on behalf of a previous Half Hour Challenge – it was great but never quite fitted in with our Inkblots’ themes. Now we have the perfect chance to publish it under our running theme, hope. As you may be able to tell, our poet isn’t a big fan of the summer months and loves a cold snap in the air. Well, it’s winter now, Blue. If you enjoyed his poetry, make sure you check out some of Blue’s other work including last month’s ‘Little Candle‘ and the short story ‘Thankfully Forgetful‘. 

Featured Image // Moyan Brenn

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35.2

Written by Lilith

The author wrote this as a response to 35.1 by Bobartles, fearing that his first person narrative didn’t do him justice. While we think this piece works fine as a stand alone, she’d like to request that you read 35.1 first for a spot of context.

Love keeps the winter from freezing us all to death. Image courtesy of laura-makabresku on deviantart.


It’s cold, shit, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this cold before. The draft clings to my thighs and I regret not dressing more warmly for January, but it’s too late for that so I clench my legs together, wishing for heat. I cradle my coffee in both unsteady hands and try to stop crying.

I look back at the screen. “It’s cold,” I read aloud. “I don’t notice.” I try to envision the narrator; a man so jaded and dead inside that he can’t comprehend every eddy of cool air snaking across his skin, creeping through his clothes. I know I’m meant to think he can’t feel it because he’s so cold on the inside, but something about it strikes me as wrong. Cold isn’t like that. It creeps in, not out.

I know you better than you think, dear narrator. I know your smile. My shaking hands still as I consider you, and a tiny twinge of warmth makes its way through my body. I sip my coffee, feeling a little more like myself.

How can I possibly tell you that you aren’t this person? I imagine you in his place, standing on the bridge with the harsh winter wind ripping through your immovable body, feeling nothing at all. I see myself at your side, my hand creeping into yours as you stare down at the traffic below.

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You’re Home

Cold and alone… Can this really be home?

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

No home for you there, little boy.
Just keep on walking by.
No point looking in, little boy,
Just avert your eyes.

The day is dark and cold, little boy.
But ’tis warmer still
Than the warmth of a lie, little boy,
And no lie hides the chill.

Truth will sell you short, little boy.
Leave you sad and alone.
You may shiver and cry, little boy,
But the truth is, you’re home.