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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Snow can look so beautiful but it can be lethal.

Submitted: December 14, 2016

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Submitted: December 14, 2016





Lets go for a walk in this world of white, the snow so fresh and new,

we’ll wrap up warm against the cold, well covered before we do.


The snow is soft, like cotton wool, our feet it almost swallows,

we’re leaving a trail of footprints which someone could surely follow.


It feels so very peaceful in this silent land of snow

our footsteps do not make a sound no matter where we go.


The branches droop down on the trees weighed down but hanging there,

we will not talk but wander on, our thoughts enough to share.


The softness, so seductive, we can’t help but carry on,

the darkness that’s approaching, the sun it has now gone;


we’ve come much further than we meant, the way back is so long,

the temperature has dropped so fast now that the wind is strong.


The whiteness, it is lethal, tearing coldly into skin,

there is no place to shelter here, no where we can get in.


The ground, it starts to crackle as that snow turns straight to ice,

we’re slipping now and sliding, and it’s really not so nice.


The flakes they are now swirling, making our world go spinning round

I’m begging, please don’t get us lost for there’s no way we’ll de found;


the snow that’s falling from the sky to settle down in place

has removed all of our footprints, leaving not a trace.


The silence that had seemed so nice before, now whispers out its threat,

that venturing out into that peace is an action we’ll regret.


We’ll cling on to each other, step by step we will move on.

Which way to go in whiteness? We know we can’t be wrong.


It’s hard to keep up the pace when ice has spread across the ground

but we’ll not give in to that despair and to the snow be bound.


I can feel you start to shiver, I know that I am too,

the coldness now so brutal that it chills us through and through.


Closer now together, we struggle further through the black,

any kind of illumination is something that we lack.


But round the corner, straight ahead, there glows a yellow light

the house that we are staying in now such a welcome sight.


As if it’s trying to claim us the wind picks up with a roar

in an attempt to stop us reaching the safety of that door.


I don’t want a grave of snow, I won’t lay down on that ice,

we’re going to make good that escape and it will be so nice


to curl up by the fire and then slowly to defrost,

a winter-white adventure that our lives it could have cost.


This whiteness sure looks beautiful but our lives almost forsaken,

we’ll view it from the windows now and won’t be so mistaken.





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