Alas, there was a barren crossroad,
or perhaps crossfigured,
in denial of where it shall meet.
But then, there were the lonely trees –
those too, barren.
Its leaves stolen from an irate wind
that left frigid ice in its place.
Tis it all seemed too much
for thy weak knees.
My mind, still stagnant,
my heart a bit hostile,
because winter stole the summer breeze.
So now, I sit.
so still as I have trouble being tranquil.
For thy scene outside, is one that leaves
tears to the crestfallen eyes.
Snow slowly trickles
and it tangos to a mindless transfigured beat,
while I rub my tired bittercold hands
above the sweltering fire’s heat,
and stare at the barren crossroad
through a pane of frosted window glass.
Alas, I still find myself,
a bit irate.
The wind outside has lost its hearty warmth.
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