The Chill

Trees so bare

Have shed their hair

Upon the brisk chill

That has overcome the hill


Broken branches

Dead the leaves, prancing

Scattered and flowing

The wind, catching and blowing


Frost that bites

Crawling up like mites

Eating away the years

Clipped pieces, falling like tears


Old parts like logs

Clutter, covered in fog

Mist of the unknown

No moss overgrown


Weighed down from frozen water

That fell from the sky

Can’t shake the cover

The blizzard blinds


Too cold to peel

The hollow of steal

Inside it waits

For warmth to recreate


For now the air

Like hell that stares

Watches and sees

All the moves of the trees. 



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