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The Days Which Winter Throws
Winter has crept through these desolate trails-
those crossing
and intertwining
uniting to the crypted playground
you see there.
The swings move ever so slowly
in the taunting air
that chills our hands
and numbs our faces.
We,
the late bloomers
collide once again
in the inevitable human race
that soars
and stings
and sails to oblivion.
“Hold me close,”
she whispers to the indigo shades painted above her,
for,
the sky is the only source of light
she holds.
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