In the winds of winter
the biting air reminds
that warm is the sun yet
the cold finds its time.
I hear the crisp paper;
fluid marks the surface
and sends us a journey,
an endeavor a purpose.
I shall not speak for you
some things in a head.
For without my secrets
all my mystery is dead.
I’ll retreat though up
into a canvas of trees.
Me you will not see,
as I bleed needlessly.
Prodded and slapped
by the wind on my face.
When warm my feelings
I seek on paper to trace.
Yet slumbering beneath
is a cold I learned to learn.
When I set my pen upon
a page I want it to burn.
The heat warms my talons
as all cold it fades it leaves.
Hear the echos they grow,
I call out amidst the trees.
***********************************
(Image:Pinterest,Animation:Jared Winchester,Content:Jared Winchester)
Oh Jared this is very good. Great work my friend.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you 😊
LikeLike
Jared!! This is amazing. I’ve read it 3 times & each time is better than the last. This is one of your best, and you already know I have SO many favorites from you. 😍
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you Kristian. That’s very nice of you to say.
LikeLiked by 1 person