There is this air
halfway
to the sky,
the landing of feet
over snow
is the sound rapping
between thick ice
and the warmth of the sun
lost in it,
Moonlight is a lost childhood
waiting to cry out
of someone's blood and bone
A buck sneaking through the forest
is the rustle of a leaflet,
not yet having announced him
His heart thawed,his chances
gone by then
halfway
to the sky,
the landing of feet
over snow
is the sound rapping
between thick ice
and the warmth of the sun
lost in it,
Moonlight is a lost childhood
waiting to cry out
of someone's blood and bone
A buck sneaking through the forest
is the rustle of a leaflet,
not yet having announced him
His heart thawed,his chances
gone by then
u know their is a peculiar absurdity about the contrasts and comparisons in almost all ur poems which makes one hang on to these thoughts, even long after one has read them
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