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The anger leaves my body
This feeling is soft
My eyes ***** up and my chest tightens
The base of my throat collapses in on itself
My head is my cave and the blizzard is malicious
Bits of snow fly in and taunt the flames on my fire
Behind my eyes there is water, laughter and a warm hand in mine
The snow moves through the fire and melts
Drops of water dry on the logs
I hope the blizzard stops
Nepal
1920 BS
In the month of Mangsir
~
they met on the cold misty hillside.
Mist draped the mountains
their peaks covered in clouds.
Green terraces stretched along the hills.

~
She stood on a greenway
draped in a flowing Nepalese traditional dress
her long hair rippling in the soft gusts of air.
She turned & their eyes met
deep, significant & dreamlike.

~
Suddenly
tears welled in her eyes.
& for reasons he couldn’t name
they welled in his too
He reached to wipe them away
but with the cold wind of Mangsir
she disappeared
like every shade of burning paper blown toward the sky.
~
She disappeared
~
She disappeared
Yet
if she loved him
why didn't she leave a flower
where he first wiped her tears?

Why?
Actually this was a story not a poem that I wrote yesterday but now I’m turning it into a poem capturing all its main points & theme
Someday summer comes again,
Someday the sun does away with cold winds.
Winter doesn't last forever,
Winter will leave us soon.
I know we're at it's end,
I can see the light linger longer.
Winter will come to a close,
Winter snows have ceased their blow.
Someday the warm rays will melt the ice,
Someday stars will glow in a warm evening again.
It's felt like ages since the first snow fall of this ever-lasting winter.
Well I'm sure,
These rainy days won't stay forever.
There's not a chance,
Clouds are big enough to hold that much.
So that is how I know,
The sun will come out and melt this snow!
It may be gray but gray fades so easy.
Joy is a little thing,
A warm luxury in the chill of winter's winds,
One sparkling treasure in the face of somber spring rains.
Happiness is a man,
Roaming the midnight city streets,
Tossing gold glitter all over the way as he skips along.
Pleasure, a soft blanket on your bed,
A perfectly placed pillow to rest your head,
A pencil that never runs out of pencil lead.
Everything is diamond when relief rears its head,
Assuring as the autumn breeze,
Pushing around stray sticks and leaves.
Nothing like a smile to make the warmth of the world stay awhile
Sorry mate,
I can't afford lunch today,
Who knew hell had such expensive heating.
You'd reckon with all the fire,
It'd be awfully hot.
But I'm still shivering,
At least some of the devil's are oppo-zot.
The right side is reserved for every left thought
Preacher please,
Would you open your doors for me?
I have sinned yes,
But is sin is common in my profession's play.
The night is awfully cold,
If only you'd give me a moment,
To warm my hands by the hearth.
Certainly one of God's high and mighty,
Would let a poor man thaw his fingers.
I miss their mobility,
I can barely hold my own hands,
Much less a pen.
.
Often I'll wake in my slumber,
To a melody seeping through the window.
It's sung by the stars,
They beckon me from my soft bed,
To the chill of night.
I listen, for if I were not to dance to their music,
Their art would be at a waste.
The stars are beautiful.
Andrew Feb 18
Quietly sitting beside a dying fire,
hands outstretched, waiting for warmth
that never fully comes.
You tell yourself it's fine,
even fading heat is better than the cold.

But is it enough?
The flickering embers,
the half-light that barely holds back the night.
It is better than the risk of ashes,
better than watching it all burn away.

So you stay.
You stir the coals,
feed it what little you have left,
collecting the smallest sparks,
as if they might one day catch flame.

But they never do.
And deep down, you know they won’t.
The fire dims, shrinking into embers,
glowing softly but offering nothing,
leaving only smoke and the weight of the chill.

And maybe it’s too late.
Maybe one day, the fire will vanish completely,
a hollow space where warmth once lived.
Or maybe—just maybe—
you’ll walk away before the cold takes you too.
Cold days are nothing,
Compared to the days of,
Full night in Russia.
Imagine a whole day where the sun comes up not once.
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