The harsh outside.

She kept looking outside,
Through that big french window.
She could see a lot of wind moving the trees,
Some sand in the air, some gentle tapping on the door.

She looked at the roof,
And at her surroundings.
She inspected the walls around,
The candles, the paintings.

She was comfortable where she was,
A little lost in her thoughts though.
As she slightly shivered in the cold and quiet around,
Cold on the palms, cold on the toes.

But what struck her little bit,
Was that stark reality and thought.
As to how it looked so pretty from the comfort of inside,
That humid, sandy, harsh outside DARK.

– Stuti


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