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The Prison Of Snow
The snow was a shimmering, beautiful, white blanket,
Covering the green grass,
Like a blanket that covers the body of a small, young child,
Whose eyes had become heavy and slowly closed.
The blanket wrapped tightly around the tall towering trees,
Like the little boy, Saroo, embraced his mother in the movie Lion,
after 25 of being apart,
It sank into the holes that wrecked the once- perfect land,
And followed the shape that the tall hill formed.
As the man’s shoes sank into the untouched,
6 foot deep snow.
The coldness hit him like a bullet blowing through his chest,
As it touched the crack between the man’s long grey snow pants and black snow boots,
Which were two sizes two small.
And shaking ferociously,
The man wanted to escape the prison of snow that he would not let him leave.
It felt as if long icicles had developed at the edge of his face,
Composed from the tears that escaped his eyes,
Due to the brutal, beastly, beating wind,
Slapping his face from all directions,
north, south, east and west
Glass made of water hung by the tree’s frozen branches,
And the blue feathered birds,
That would normally be out perched on their branches,
And would be singing a tune,
Stayed inside in its dwelling made of twigs,
Staying warm and toasty,
As the wind blew atrociously on.
The view that lay ahead,
Was one to remember.
The ocean of snow that continued to the horizon,
And the once straight trees,
The branches weighed down by the heavy, fluffy snow.
Sitting Before the Fire
Crackling, burning wood sits in the fireplace,
As the children,
Wrapped in soft silky, smooth blankets,
Lay on the couch.
Which sparked the fire,
has turned into,
Black embers that were scattered around in a reckless way.
The children read their favorite books,
As their father cooked barbeque by the brook.
Eyes heavy and about to close,
Trying to finish the last page of the chapter,
Before they fall into a sleep.
The petite children could feel the waves of heat,
Hit their faces suddenly,
And warm them up, so much it felt as if the fire was actually touching them.
Each of their hands,
that was closest to the fire,
Could feel the warmness run up their arms.
The fire slowly burns out after hours,
Each child fast asleep,
With their heads on plump, pillows,
The blankets laid lightly over them,
And their books sprawled open on their chests,
As if each child had fell asleep in the middle of a page,
Too tired to continue.