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Footsteps in the forest, warm gold of Autumn's light. Whispers in the woods, songs drifting on wind, again, and again, and again. Voice lifted, rose and fell, as if it could dispell, some lack of meaning. Words tilting endlessly, at windmills in her head. What bird sings of death? Even the little deaths. A smile, capsized, drowned in youth, bones picked clean.. So why sing, really? What words make it even worth it? What words can make that perfect? What rhyme makes that seem, like something that means, anything to you, or me, singing beneath this tree? Why do you think this song means anything to her? The sun's glow? You seem to mistake, heat for oppression, time with obsession, death with a lesson. The way we grow? Some do, some don't. New things, new pains, life gains, come spring. Yet, at night, or in light, winter feasts on delight. A bird, frozen in the snow, not a fate she knows. Footsteps crunched bones, a birds home, once upon a time. Yet she sang so sweetly. Couldn't understand the words, just repeated what she heard. Couldn't understand this death, she hadn't met it yet. Calling out, primal, unbound. A dream she found, a voice in her veins. "Oh come, sweet death, drift me away." "These sparks of life will always fade." "I'd kiss your face, if it gave meaning." "Chase your shadow, if I had reason." "Take your place, if I could." "Let you rest in the woods." "Aren't you lonely too?" aeza | |