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My Tin Can

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The whistle chimes, and with the sweep of my hand,
I scoop the small cup in to my warm, soft palm.
Its winter days. The white caps singing from the window to wonderland.
Oh how it keeps me so enraveled,
So far that I have traveled,
I see, not feel, the small flakes of white pleasure,
Laying so peacefully, so expected to be shoveled
away! Oh yes, how I wish to be this snow, so sure.

These winter days, oh cold and dreary.
Shivers shatter the hopes, as my teeth do breathing white air.
My cracked, dry palm sees no warmth in this white nightmare.
Me and my cup turned into, the tin can I grasp, praying to fare,
I do feel those flakes, I do, in reality they burn my skin.
Burning never ends, as me and my tin can, watch from the outside of the window to wonderland.





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