The Dead Hare

February 19, 2009
By scarlett elrod BRONZE, Newnan, Georgia
scarlett elrod BRONZE, Newnan, Georgia
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

A river of red trickles through the snow,
Is it blood?
It seeps into the soft blanket,
Staining its perfection,
Corrupting its purity and innocence,
But is the snow innocent?
Was it the frigid sea of white that captured a soul's domain?
No, the snow does not tear flesh,
It does not rip, or destroy a being,
It saves it,
Stores it,
And keeps it perfect,
Preserved in an icy shell,
Where it will never be stolen.
It will be jealously guarded by the snow,
Who, for all it's innocence,
Desires the secrets of others,
So that one day,
It might not melt,
Under death's dark river.


The author's comments:
I do not like the cold. I can never fully be myself unless I am outside, free, with the earth under my bare feet. But when it is cold, I must hide myself in layers of fabric, and i can never truely be a part of my surroundings. After a week of being trapped indoors, I sat down and angrily typed this out, feeling as though i was ridiculing winter and poking fun at her hidden vunerability. I live in Georgia; it hasn't snowed in six years, but that still doesn't mean i can't blame the blizzards up north for my chilly evenings down south. Was I at peace with winter after writing this? Of course not! But I enjoy imaginging winter's reaction if she ever read my poem.

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