The Scarlet Snowflake

The snow was stained red
On a gray, December night.
Not an hour before,
That snow had been white.

It floated from the heavens,
down, to the earth.
It had such high hopes
of finally achieving worth
for itself or the public.
Maybe then they’d accept
it amongst themselves,
but instead it was wrecked.
It should have seen it coming
when it tried to be rain.
Now it will never
be white again.
It’s coated in the blood
of its wounded other self.
Why couldn’t it have seen
all its own wealth?
Its shimmery surface
with the sun’s reflection
and the sparkling view
of its quiet perfection.
Instead, it tried to be
something it was not.
What does a transparent
and plain, little drop
have to compare
to the intricacies
of a glimmering star?
It, now, forever carries
the mark of that night
that will not be forgotten.
The scar it received,
so ugly and rotten,
will be a constant reminder
of its mistake that night,
to itself and the public,
never out of sight.

The snow was stained red
On a gray, December night.
Not an hour before,
That snow had been white.

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