A poem:

She harks a knock on the door,
Faint and feeble at first,
Grows resolute, and resounding,
The man’s pleading is terse,

“Provide a parched pauper
Some water, if you please!”
He stands crippled by cold,
Degraded by disease.

She harks a knock on the door,
Faint and feeble once more,
Can barely hear his hungry cries,
As stands submerged in snow…

His sunken eyes stare at her
Basking in blissful warmth,
A stare of doleful desire
She returned with one calm…

A plate of stew lay untouched,
Fresh and hot and fragrant,
Cans of tinned peaches stood,
Inviting his grim, gaunt gaze..

She budged not, just looked on,
With conspicuous contempt,
Gloating at his grave anguish,
Reveling in his torment…

As winter wantonly advanced,
She harked a knock on the door,
A final howl of agony,
‘Ere it ceased, forevermore.

-The Forgers of Fantasy

For more poems, refer The Forgers of Fantasy