Wednesday, 10 October 2012


Cold. A shiver up the back and it slowly seeps into the bones.
Winds that blow becoming steadily stronger.
A gust that blows your hair into your eyes, and whips it around so that you are left blinking back tears.
Leaves. Tumbling in a multitude of mayhem, pouring like salt from a box, to take flight.
Or whisperingly fall unseen, unknown, to glide in silence descending, descending.

How much farther do we fall?
We look back on forlorn times, to collide into the others, becoming so interspersed that we lose our identity
We hang, awaiting, on hopes for a fulfilment of restoration that never comes.
Grey. The clouds seep over everything moving, and vacuuming up the last hope, drops it all in tears.
We open our eyes to the blue of the sky, and where have all the clouds gone?
Why are the trees bare and where are our hopes, are they gone or do we wait to begin anew?
Or in existing have we already begun?