The Rabbit Hole in the Snow

Pure. That's what they call me anyway. Like the snow that drifts lazily from

the sky to the earth.

One.

Two. 

Three.

I fall. I drop. I flit. I flutter. I dance. I slip.

Down and down and down.

Innocent. That's what they call me anyway. Like the child that rams their

cold toes into even colder boots as they dash out the door to explore the frozen

wonderland, 

only to discover the purity, the innocence, is nothing but a

wasteland.

Down I fall through the rabbit hole, forever changed but the changes remain

unseen

by all but me. The Hatter and the Cheshire await my arrival.

But all others can say are pure and innocent. 

To them that's all I'll ever be.

This poem is about: 
Me

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