White is Cold

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

There have been times when I was stuck waiting in the cold wintry snow, and I would imagine myself in a warmer place. But sometimes I would imagine I were stuck out there for good, and that's where this poem came from.

Cold.

My hands are cold. 
My feet are cold.

My heart is cold.

I sit on the uneven rocks as I listen.
The wind seems to whisper my name.
A name I have forgotten.
The wind seems to whisper my name as some sort of game to me.

Did you hear that?
Could that be someone there?
No.

It is only the trees stretching, whining as they bend their backs and pull on their roots.

I nuzzle the fuzzy collar of my coat and shiver.
The cold zipper cuts my lip. 
The blood is so warm. So hot.

Is there really no one to hear me cry? Or scream with pain?

I can’t think anymore…where am I?
When am I?

Who am I?

I tie, then untie, then tie my shoelaces over and over to keep busy.
I pull my hair, I scream.
I lie down in the white snow, just waiting.
I tap my coat button again and again, letting the plastic noise echo in my mind.
The tapping is matching the beating of my heart.
I tap slower and slower, peacefully and even.

Click tap. Click…tap. Click………tap.

I look around once more.
The edges of the trees seem black.

I am empty, bare, utterly and completely

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alone


Submitted: August 13, 2014

© Copyright 2021 Ani Fen. All rights reserved.

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Comments

Lisa Ayers

Hi Ani, great imagery. You captured the winter and being isolated there so well.

Wed, August 13th, 2014 4:18am

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