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I have always equated winter with death The land lying like a corpse; cold, stiff, pale, quiet, lifeless Leafless trees pointing to the heavens Like skeletal hands reaching up from the grave The eerie silence of an insect-free evening The spectral moan of the night wind weaving through the branches The darkness, which comes too early, and lasts too long Bundled in too many layers of clothing, my movements are restricted, as if by the walls of a casket I lay down in the snow The longer I lie there, the harder it is to move, and the less I want to The cold--seeping into my bones--urges me to close my eyes, and sleep...forever |
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