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In the crawl space
above the ceiling
amongst boxes of old memories
lay a trinket breathing
as the night grew cooler
and the snow sprayed a aplenty
the boy lay dreaming
of warm hearths and the brewing
as he lay there hidden
where he could wipe his tears streaming
and hugged the chimney bricks
that’s where the warmth really was
the fire crackling several feet beneath.
In the crawl place
dark and dusty
no one cared what the chimney boy did
breaking stale bread stolen from window sills.
Where the night grew just a split bearable
with the warm bricks giving kindness unseen.