Frozen

PP1902

My pen
hovers.

The paper,
crisp clean like virgin snow
waits.

Inside,
I look out
beyond those frozen gates
to a greener hill.

The snow has stopped,
the paper like melting snow
shows rocks.

I feel the thrill.

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Author: George McDermid

I scratch out poems, and the odd little tale. Mostly for my own amusement.

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