The winter sings after the summer falls. I am left without a clue in a stricken path, away from any sense of light. My lungs are wired with electricity, but it only flickers until it dies. The air, oh the holy oxygen, how will it breathe by your grace? I kneel on the pavement, the cold cement kisses my bruised knees without courtesy, hoping that my mouth bleeds the anger I have consumed as I picture your demons in my head. “Hold and touch me before you sacrifice me,” I pray. To the underworld. To the holy gods of the land of death. To the hiding pastors in the woods, quiet in their soothing laughters and broken philosophies. I cry and scream as I wait for the rain. Why not the rain? It is almost nonsense to snow if all the white flakes will only turn to liquid. I shout at the dark clouds to not be abashed and show themselves to my pleas. The first raindrop falls followed by a thousand army. To you, my loveliest dear, who left me where we met before, I will create a spell for you. May your ship always sail to me for harmony and peace shall never be redeemed without my salvation. And this lifeline, my dying grace, is the enchantment I will never forego for you.
WORD COUNT: 225
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