FROZEN FOG

Frost,

Cold hearted,

Makes me exquisite.

On the ground,

I look like heaven.

Sunlight glints off me,

And for a while,

I can play, at being snow white,

Out of the woods.

 

The very thought,

Of being someone else,

For a short moment even,

Brings to me,

An irrational hope,

That I can grow flowers,

If I just try,

To be more,

Than barren, steadfast,

Grass.

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