The snow falls and the children yell.
Their voices shrill with a million calls.
I feel a tattered mess inside.
And it leaves a wonder why I haven't died.
The yelling children so care free.
That is what my appearance shows.
But this is not truly me.
Oh no what lies inside is cold and frigid.
Like the snow.
So icy and bitter yet beautiful and pure.
Pure until it is tainted that is.
Tainted is the word sought here.
For once snow is touched it is no longer pure.
Gone with everything it once held dear.
The snow was once my soul.
Once magical and clean with its purity.
But now it is black coal.
Ready to be blown away, crushed again and again.
Just hanging there by a thread, on a whim.
Now the children do not yell.
And snow, snow does not fall.
Instead it was my soul.
That fell.