Miniscule. So tiny and bold....
There is a sign that never grows old....
Delicate...except cold!
No, taste to thy tongue does it hold...
I love to see it all!
Bitter, cold, wet, icy and hail gather(s).
Created a child fancy: Snowball(s).
We are fleeing the cold object.
I will never be without mittens.
How do we sleigh to this tune as subject?
Fallen to Earth, soft as a newborn kitten.
My kittens fur are akin to them.
To be soft, inside and warm?...
We are similar in comparison....
Why do I think of fellow companions?
Now.
I clean off my automobile.
I feel like flying paper mobiles?
No time for that.
A fleeting moment, I enjoyed tiny snowball tracks
Remained of hail....
Cold, soft, fallen snow tale knows.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Pearl Thomas and writers in Poets and other communities.
We'z Walking on a Path Ruled By Numbers
This road has felt endless, yet limited; every step tracked. Inching away along this path, I feel trapped. Confined. Left to this narrow passage that may one day amount to something greater. Time is not a concept. Only distance. From start to finish, I laugh and cry and attempt to convince myself that this is worth it. I cannot stray. I must keep going. Every step etched, is a step taken, is measured as more than before. I cannot even recall how I got here. Maybe I don’t even really exist. Just another tick marking off a perceived presence. Of what though? I am just another line drawn. Nothing more, nothing less.
By Oneg In The Arctic6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.