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I painted all the dying leaves green,
in honor of the bitter breeze.

I heard the whispers of winter in the air,
harsh voices, tangled up in my hair.

I walked the roads,
so far from home.

I lit a fire to warm my bones,
loneliness- a path I never chose.

I peeled the colors from the sky,
and went smaller, each time I heard the wind cry.

I picked the daisies from the field,
and scraped the ice from my windshield.

I wept earlier, each night,
as this city lost its sunlight.

My mind is wrecked,
a choppy sea.

The evil within me stirs inside,
it ebbs and flows an aggressive tide.

It echos within me,
“the storm’s coming quickly.”

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