The Snowman
L Lorraine Margueritte Gasrel Black
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I made you with my own hands
Out of cotton stuffs,
your eyes were but little holes
And I shivered with their cold.
Your smile-I made that too-
Untouched by my love,
Mirrored your cold affection:
and neither love in your making
Or tears of a heart breaking
reached your cruel mind.
I broke you
Then I danced with joy.
You are no more.
Published in the Beachplums Spring 1970.
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