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The selfish comfort of a fire while winter bites outside,
Morning raised to be at peace
with subtle beauty
That sleeps behind horizon’s graylight shroud,
Like whisper’s barely loud enough to hear,
Or walking pairs with sweet-touch hands that know they aren’t alone,
Or streets run empty at night well hushed enough for dogs to sleep in peace,
And so each day brings less and less of quiet
I was born in,
Less of everything perceived by youngster me,
With age I sense so fewer of the pure-at-heart each morning,
Knowing more are made to struggle to be free,
Yet I cling to best-in-people despite
self-knowing naivety,
But so much changes in each person’s heart on time,
Like the cry at birth,
it’s search for oxygen,
In time those tears will carry greater baggage of emotion,
Falling harder,
the exit poll
farther into pools reflecting back,
To see unto the well-cooked mess one has become,
So with each fear the tears become detached,
From the life we’re born to want,
Such that runs through grassy hills and forests,
Are just selfish freedoms left for those who never had to think too hard,
Well maybe I will try just not to think too hard either,
And wallow here
in contented selfish comfort of blazing fires,
While winter bites
outside.