Winter


The wind blows silken spiders' webs around you,
Touched by sunlight,
Turning to blankets of stardust as they hit the ground.
You grumble.
Voices sing songs, past stories precious to sentimental hearts.
You've heard them all before.
The cold, you say, nips at you like ravenous beasts.
The beasts are only puppies wanting to play.

We walk through white painted streets.
People hurry by with colorful packages wrapped with tender care.
Too commercialized, you say.
A rainbow has shattered over the city, the colors
Caught on black and green nets across obelisks of brick and stone.
Too bright, you grumble.
People smile at strangers, their hearts
Bursting with bells and promises,
Kisses, stolen beneath ruby drops.
Laughter rings out as new hearts race down a mountainous Persian cat.
They'll hurt themselves, you say.

We stand in a place of ink and minds,
Running our hands along the old souls.
"People are beginning to sing again."
You look out the window and
Grumble.

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