Snowglobe


Snow constantly sprinkled down inside,
Yet, zero clouds from which the water cried.
A polished, flat surface,
Platform without deface.
Trapped in a cage with nowhere to hide.

Pressing both hands against the rounded glass,
A small moth grazes it only to pass.
Looking out to the world,
Curtains blow as they curled.
Dancing in circles with a key of brass.

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