Description
An original poem.
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A harvest moon rests in the center,
Between the pink and blue skies
Of a cold crisp night,
Framed by three twisted trees,
Scorched by Winter's harsh touch,
Left naked in the cold,
I am the trees with my hands outstretched,
Dying from the glaciation,
The goose flesh inclemency
Can't stop me from reaching my goal,
My only purpose,
To frame the moon from one perspective,
Only one,
To improve one person's day,
The only one who notices,
Stripped of my leaves and covered in snow,
Powder slips slow, dripping mist from my fingertips,
From above to below comes my utter lack of bliss,
Black, burned, baked to a crisp,
By the wind,
Slipping into the depths of the end,
Doors closed,
Eyes opened,
Stairs crumbled,
Ears ripped from their heads,
Buildings collapsed,
Mouths stitched shut,
Our fevered egos collectively catch up,
And suddenly we are struck down by ourselves,
One hand open,
The other stretched out,
I am simply a frame,
A frame for the moon on this eve of misery,
A window of pain with nothing better to do,
A holder for the heavens to improve the view.