The world is a forest of snow globes,
Each globe a prison
Each person a prisoner.
So near yet so far.
Our small worlds are shaken often
Yet we cannot share our pain.
The glass prevents our words from escaping
And they echo perpetually
As the snow falls.
If only we were as hardy as the frozen trees
whose ice coated branches
wave and gently tinkle in the breeze.
We humans, though, resemble grass,
too weak to withstand
the onslaught of the frost
then shamefacedly creeping back
when spring returns at last.
The ice upon the ground,
Has traveled up my spine
And filled my ears and mouth.
Waiting for a spring
I know will never come,
I watch as life drips by
Yet cannot make a sound.
inkgirlwords 