The Cold Vagabond

He evaded his eternal winter far too many times, He began to rot and wither, But he hid, lest his mind began to slither. To mimic, he wore paint of clowns and mimes. However, the smell became too pungent, The worms threaded through flesh like needles. He hid once more, from vultures and hungry eagles, And his carnal desires became redundant. He was only bone, his gaze cold and dead. The vagabond wandered and covered in graves. It knew it would never get to smell food on trays, Nor ever taste fresh, warm bread. The deadlife took it's mental toll, He wandered battlefields, the moment prized. His transformation finalized, And the vagabond only then realized, The winter takes all.