Blown in with the leaves of time
Strewn out like paper discarded
Elapsed like the growing grass
But still there escapes no figurative talk
No lively-hood of lust that escapes the drivel
Onward and upward in a spiral inward
Left for the ransacking
Two lone bowls of fruit
Monotonous in content
But alive with desire in substance
And then the snow begins to fall
Pulling with it a breath of relief
Inward it seeks for that calming nerve
