the time is right.
the wine is ripe.
autumn leaves drip
from the sky,
and the wind crests
a secret cold
of golden tongues.
the trapped and tired
warm themselves
by gripping fires
that tangle flames
like the tails of snakes
swimming to the deep
below, rushing waves
of ember and coal.
soon, winter will be at hand,
and another year will have passed.
i can feel the shivers from here
as a frozen tear
sheds
from the eyes
of the wasted.
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