For his Level Two writing portfilio, Will decided to have a crack at writing a poem. He did a very good job!
We were protected.
In the Himalayas, isolated above Nepal,
our small village huddled around the fire.
Smoke rose from the hearth,
incense, an encroaching scent,
merging with our memories.
Snow sealed the mountain passes.
Forest lined the crevices.
Paths buried by snow.
The elders kept watch.
Teachings followed by necessity.
Better to stay inside, safe
by the faux fire of their words.
Their shadows, taller than flames.
Daily offerings placed.
Candles lit along the mantel.
Sacred symbols etched into the walls
like iron bars across a cell,
keeping us within their faith.
Day after day,
year after year,
the same rituals repeated.
Yet now the
fire flickered, fractured.
The village trembled.
The fire surrendered to the dark.
Coldness radiating,
engulfing us,
blooming from within.
A flower of ice uncoiling.
Its petals, searing cold
to the touch.
The elders abused ritual like chains,
their blessings forced our steps,
their symbols formed our chamber.
They indoctrinated stories of frost,
creeping like white veins.
And so we remained,
snowbound with our own.
The trees, a labyrinth.
The mountains forbade us from leaving.
The elders bound our souls.
The storm outside,
incomparable to the hurricane within.
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