I write about the winter ways
with no foresight or thought;
and haunt away what bitter rays
of hope lay to be bought.

Around the streets, beneath the signs
a howl stings the air.
And even though you didn't know -
although I know it isn't fair -

I have to give direction, darling;
sweetness for the masses.
Yes, my doll, you're such a scarred thing;
the flesh, a death that passes.

But winter winds can sing their sin;
I will write about their lies.
And bleed so sweet within
the thin accompaniment of highs.

An autumn death would would be the best.
Your February aches me;
but I write rhymes that mesmerize and rest
just as I should be.

Erase the son, erase the sin, the cycle
starts again. I wanted more to emphasize
the sorrow in the spin. That, Michael,
we aren't where we live, but where we empathize.

some truly wonderful lines here...

Thanks. *smile*

Beautiful as usual, really hard to say much more with your writing plastic...but as always, a pleasure to read.

Thanks, man.

You have a true & unique talent....

*hug*

I hate using the same trite comments over and over "fantastic, beautiful, fabulous, awesome, great, nice."

So imagine me applauding instead. And then giving a standing ovation.