A dead vine
in the winter, almost
losing its foliage,
Left with brown wood
to get through
the dark months.
Losing its elegance
as the fireplaces quench,
but it still seems,
A poet coming from far away
to be comforted
by the evergreen.
The poet writes,
"A winter wisteria
coming back to existence,
Rising from the cracks
and overshadowing
the barricades ,"
The runoff of snow begins
as the sun softly shines,
Signing an end of an era,
And the beginning of a new.
Aurora
Her hands frozen
By the snow
Celestial lights
Fell on her cheeks
As she looked up,
Her life tarnished
Into the darkness,
The place lit up.
It was mother nature
Telling her to get up,
To stand up on her knees,
It was mother nature
Telling her not to be defined
By someone else's deeds. A melody
Not far away
In a distant land,
The sun sets
Just in time.
For now,
It's darkness's reign.
Under a leafless hazel tree, he sits
The sound of a mysterious train echoed.
Crying and burying followed.
"Let's go home, sire."
The Watchmaker looks up,
It's his nephew
He came to pick him up.
The angel sings a melody
The smell of roses in the snow
The nephew was long gone, he thinks
They disintegrate into a yellow glow.
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