Arcticane

In the cold mountains, far away
Something lurks beneath the snow
Hidden from the light of day.
Until no speck of sun will show
This is where the storm shall stay.

On darkest eve with newest moon
Clandestine things so quietly start
Dim eyes blink cold maroon
The blanket of white begins to part
Frost rises on a snowy dune

As ancient power starts to rise
A creeping wind begins to blow
The air is rent with insane cries
As the Arcticane begins to grow
And quickly increases in size.

In a quiet mountain town,
One citizen was heard to say,
“By Queen Matilda’s crown!
Midwinter’s storm is on the way!
Through north valley it comes down!

The dragon has been unbound,
Great power has been unleashed
We all must stop this fooling around
And go where we cannot be reached –
Or in this snow we shall be drowned!”

To the high town’s central tower
People fled for safety and relief
And before the end of the hour
They all cried in disbelief
When the snow began to shower

As the storm continues to grow
Villagers hid, awed to silence
From the whirling mass of snow
Causing unnecessary violence
Like the Reaper out to Mow.

One child stumbled in just in time
Alive although unhappily she limps
Feeling far from sublime
For she has caught a frightful glimpse
Of dragon soaring through the rime.

With Arcticane at maximum intensity
Mountain towns are the only meal
That slake its pure immensity
The entire scene is quite surreal
With snow at highest density.

In the cold eye of the Arcticane
The dragon circles and loudly roars
“This, you fools is my terrain
Go back to fen and wretched moor
For in snowy mountains I reign!”

Out from the tower comes the wretched count
Who stupidly and defiantly cries
“We are the ones who own this snowy mount
enough with your foul, evil lies
of this land that you own is no amount!”

Moments before the town in doom
Was grabbed by cold and vicious claws
And was forever encased in a glacial tomb
The end was truly of the count’s own cause
As the dragon overhead does loom

The villagers rang the tower bell
Loud, brazen, brass, and clear
Just before the central spire fell
And how many are lost that are dear
Is quite impossible for me to tell

The serpent, satisfied in complete
Retreats back to the depths of the north
He has consumed what he could eat.
Inside where his power comes forth
Calm winds and silence coldly meet.

Maroon eyes close in the icy deep
As the Arcticane rests quiescent in repose
Over the dark town Death will reap
A single, slow wind blows
In the barren, stricken keep

The silence is endless, empty and dark
Where Arcticane’s storm leaves its ice
Where Death swoops down in a deadly arc
Where the brazen bell in half has a slice
Where nothingness has left its mark