A Hated Person:
By Alice

With only one enigmatic opening, cruelty, they're a scorched wooden locker.

Sharp, they’re the dangerous edge of a fox's claw, slowly scratching the mud-laden track.

Harsh and long, when a harmful wind clashes madly past your face, they’re a wicked winter, where cold snow climbs up your leg like a hairy spider.

After the saddened sun sinks behind the hills, they’re the time when a sudden darkness reigns the jet-black sky, scaring all that salutes it’s evil eye.

Although all that fears it bows to it.