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Like a pristine field of snow

you glare back at me and I know

that even with the greatest will

I’ll never get the words to spill

upon your virgin gown.


I want to smudge the ashes of my dreams

upon your frigid, frozen streams

that when the summer sun’s aglow

lap gently with a lazy flow

caressing inspiration from my brow.


My fingers lock in  glacial claws

upon the keyboard as it gnaws

and nips upon frost-bitten fingers.

How the raging, coldness lingers

when the heat of passion disappears.


Snow blind on a page of white,

I sit and stare and try to write

of all my frozen inspiration

born from autumns grey frustration

when words tumbled like the falling leaves.

writers blockfrustrationwinter

◄ Vermin

The Collector (Roget's Soliloquy) ►


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Yvonne Brunton

Thu 31st Jan 2013 16:36

Wonderful Great analogies. It's all amazing. I'm under its spell.

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Tina Ford

Tue 29th Jan 2013 16:35

I like this, the first verse is amazing x

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