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The wood crackles in the fire place.
The fires live like tongues of a hot furnace.
Snowâ€™s outside the hooded pane;
gnarls white patches of nightâ€™s surreal falling.
Oh! The light is cold and the fire is warm.
Somewhere the heart etches and the body feels.
Poetry | Updated Jun 8, 2010 | Reads: 1 | Comments: 0 | Likes: 2