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About This Poem
Homeless
Homeless
In close proximity
of the campfire,
our mind as pallid
as the grey of winter’s
snow laden sky,
we sit huddled:
trying to erase
the shivers
of winters last
frenzied blast,
contemplating
nothing more
than the heat
and the dance
of the flames
as they lick
frozen fingers
no longer
wearing
iced mittens.
By: Debra Squyres
01/18/13
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