Static

The rise of the fall - as autum grows bitter - for it knows of it's next -how it stays on the whole winter. To 'ner relent, perchance we'd surmise - these depending, cold grays - leave us colorless skies -these thoughtless blandings of blackening whites - unremarkable, at best, as if shadows at night -

Whenst, most would be sleeping, and dreaming of lies -The merits of cycles and the circles they like -Spins us together, dizzy inside - warmed from such friction - these winter's deprive. Ones - hopes of repentence, of faith, of acceptance - in this, stuttering static. No colors defined.

mmxv