Why is winter called season of death,
When autumn is doing all killing?
What starts as shades of flame
Ends with every color fading
And nature without it’s breath.
The cruelest time of the year
Its sky a dark gaze,
Its wind a wet whip,
No beauty left to praise.
No birds left to hear.
Only dornes and the cold are spared
For the most tormented of souls,
Still find warmth in its embrace.
Hearts with the deepest holes,
Meant only by autumn to be repaired.