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A dirty grey sheet blankets the green vitality of nature,
drooping the trees in a sad song,
a musical melancholy.
Mindless thoughts hang from nature’s broken branches.
The sky’s sadness keeps falling,
a subtle simplicity in the air,
but on the ground, the earth’s harrowing heartache.
The melting of this mess is only to leave
a silent aftermath.
An icy breeze touches all things
tangible, leaving exposure that stings
like an infection,
this cold then becomes not a feeling,
but a havoc- for all those capable of shivering.

Perhaps I am just conditionally blind to beauty—
a heart hardened by frozen inhalations
and the sky inevitably falling every night.
A hard heart welcomes deaf ears,
and brings eyes to no longer see outside of what is.
Imagination buried, buried under the rubble of winter.
When all of this distress disappears,
the bloom of life will be extinct, and exuberance
will be taken from the most alive beings.
This pure white sheet of deceit,
will leave all feeling black.
Then the sunshine comes,
only to bring relentless rain,
that falls like tears from the sky.
At the end of this season,
our souls become our clouds,
and we rain down on ourselves.



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