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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A Poem

Submitted: May 27, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 27, 2016




The Smoke swirls up from the chimney now

It's warm current spreading through the chimney now

Warming the hearth, and the rest so

but slowly the warmth will go


The fire has been lit somehow

It's burning through, Illuminating now

Lit in this mortal house of cold

Built in the frozen world of old


Who is the kindle, Who is the spark

Who lights the fire in the dark

What hands have always tried to do

What hands have always cried to do


And Why is the fire always gone

When hands come to tend the warm

As the hands will always try to do

As the hands will always cry to do


The smoke now rides the winds of the sky

And the frozen world hunts the warmth

The hands try to steal it now

The hands cry to steal it now


The frozen world never feels the warmth

But they do steal it and cage it in

And the smoke would be mutated now

Die soon, and leave the cruel world frozen down


But a little swirl would reach a house

And the house would be certainly lit

But who is the house, none shall know

And why is the house, none shall know


And so, Away, The flames would go

But in the house, Still, The warmth would glow

Who and why, none shall know

For in  this frozen world, None can ever know.



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