adatur

Cold November wind cutting through my naked limbs. I wait for the spring.

Lost in the shuffle, our hero and your card is the seven of clubs.

A longful fondness fills my heart, as shadows dance behind my eyes. I am caught between that which was, and that which can never be.

She is breathing a new wind into my soul. Long and impassioned, her kisses take root. Risen and reborn, my wings now burning things.

Words fail me and my thoughts do fall. Drifting, a bleak and ashen snow. It is silent here, and I am alone.

Frozen little motes of respiratory gas cloud the chilly air.

So solemn and still this quietness is, for gone are the marching beat and the timid rhythm and the piping flute. The air is alone.