White and crisp and a heart of ice,
the winter passes through chilly white.
At 12 AM, the clock turns back,
6 hours and the sky, black.
A harsh storm rages on,
turns the white into flowers.
And then it is gone without a trace in the air,
the falling snow.
A blank canvas leaves its' mark
On the ground,
and the sun
burns its' soul.
No trace of
the falling snow
YOU ARE READING
2 Much of Suns
Poetry#Poetry is love, poetry is life! 2 Much Of Suns Infinities. Copyright@2015 Cover by @BeyondCreative
