Existential Crisis



Slowly the arm of Winter creeps

along the grass, the frosted flowers

shivering in the chill before

the powdered coloured dawn.

The trees begin to dance, their

bareness showing their beauty

as the leaves applaud from the ground.

The season on display, lights

entwining needle-filled branches

as red berries dot their bows.

The world rushing into darkness

as if it is seeking the twinkling

brightness the obsidian sky brings—

and I, I search for mistletoe

and December roses so I can feel

secure in the knowledge

I am still your blossom.

4 thoughts on “Existential Crisis

  1. My beautiful blossom. Hello to the imitation Shakespeare. Must be Marlowe. See how these rumours get started?

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