Winter

The chilling season on shivering skin,

beautifully full coloring trees decay with the soft wind,

For only the sweet blankets of white clouds exist,

The only thing breathing is the naked trees,

Klanking in the freezing wreaths,

The sweet taste of warm liquid,

The only thing living is the sweet sounds of echoing laughter,

Only to last the long chilling days,

The copying foot prints left in the white clouds,

Sweeping to be remembered,

The freezing souls that stay only for a moment.

The little whispers that were once hiding,

Come from the over powering darkness,

The only source of light from behind the thick skin,

The skin that covers the sky with little birds,

The season of darkness but the story of light,

Only to be read with little sympathy,

The depth defying out lines that only the winter shadows see,

Only seeing the darkness,

Darkness is not more than light with change of room,

The black color room without a single deadly breath,

Stays without a care only to wait for the singing light.

For now the chilling fingers grip to stay alive

The stain of the long chilling ice,

Left with only the slim warmth,

For now the sweet beautiful song is alive,

The life of a new sway,

The depth defying out lines show a newer shower,

Covering skins with strong living birds clear,

The little sweet whispers sing with the going wind,

The warmth of the bright ball of fire,

Now shines brighter than ever,

Here to the warmth that died off just so the cold could breathe for a while.