literature

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Literature Text

I long for snow that packs
And Crackles beneath my feet.
Pristine glow of a quiet morning
For cheery sounds of weekday laughter,
Of polyester bears still hibernating by midday.
Crystal palaces built from my hands,
Towers I defend with fresh white beets.
Warmth of going home,
The hearth, the fire.
I long for the smile when mother gives,
The frothy black brew she else wise forbids
It gives you zits and rots your teeth!
She'd elsewise shriek.

I long for snow.
Originally, this was titled "A Child Too old At Eighteen" because it was written in a rare giddy moment a few years back when I was filled with passion at the end of classes and complaining how it was December and still warm enough (for me) to wear shorts. I just spewed the first two lines of this poem, and it just hit me how it sounded.

Later, it just struck me as a bit more timeless as a reminder of a time.

So for the kids and everyone else who has a piece of that still with them, here I give, this untitled piece.
© 2006 - 2024 SavageInsight
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flightless-angel's avatar
you write really beautifully. if you're not a member already, i'd like to invite you to join writerscafe, a community where lots of fellow writers can read your works and review them, an you can do the same. this is my account: [link] :aww: hope to see you there.