Withering Winter

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The flowers are closing,
The plants wither.
Death.

Winter.
It is here,
It is now.

Snow

Falls



Gently





Downward.

It covers the dead,
With a whole new kind of beauty.
It shimmers and sparkles and glows in the moonlight,
Blinding us to the murder it caused.
Only the eerie silence has us stop and think about it.

Winter.
It is here,
It is now.

Causing the green of spring,
To shrivel up and die.

Withering Winter.





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