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Elena Sandu


The Winter's Cold


Open is kept the door
Of careless time.
Far.
Under, a white
Broad blanket
With showers of
cold flakes,
I'm grounded.
In a long line
For many months
keep marching.
Transfusions of blood.
Slow participation
Whitening my heart
Bleaching it whiter
Than the snow.
Gradually, distracted
red magnets
made an appeal,
strongly favoring but wrong
directions:
The Opposite!
In vain I'm searching
Frozen apathy.
Each day
May find
Lesser amount
of me.

Could search
instead
The
Tiny
Petit,
Microscopic
Crumb
Of frozen
Love:
A Snowdrop.

Submitted: Sunday, March 16, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Topic of this poem: Winter


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  • Rookie - 134 Points Danny Draper (4/5/2014 6:36:00 AM)

    A write of delicate things, crystal ice and blood infused skin, the doom of long privation without relent, this is the season when last life was spent. (Report) Reply

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