Glassy windows stare, a house stands, holding in wait,
For a love that never came, sealed by cruel fate.
On the wind, whispers of promises fly,
For the heart that yearned, through many seasons,
Beneath the unchanging, silent sky.
He waited, aged, with a love that wouldn’t fade,
Waiting for his lover, who left him,
Until his last breath, she never came back.
She left him with a silence, a love on the wing.
The journal whispers a tale of love untold,
Of a heart that waited for its love,
And a life that grew old,
Remaining within the household until found.
Now only echoes linger, in a house by the shore,
Two souls, bound together, though forevermore apart.
Their love remained, in the breeze, passing in and out of the house.
The traveler closed the journal,
Feeling the deep longing and sadness from the dead man.
He sought to find the truth, to let the dead be at peace.
Learning the lover of the man left to find a cure for her fragile heart,
But it was too late for her fragile heart; she couldn’t come home.
And even at the last beats of her heart,
She called out to the man she left at home.

—ancn.

The sky is draped in a deep purple,
Trees, bare and dusted with snow, reach for the sky.
A blanket of white covers the ground,
A few footprints and tire tracks, whispers of people passing by,
Fading fast, like whispers in the wind.
The air is cold, but quiet and peaceful, just how I like it.

A cozy, red-brown house peeks out from behind the trees,
A lone tree, thin and spread out, stands guard,
Snow makes it look different, kind of beautiful.

What a winter night, everything is dim,
But the coldness makes the silence so beautiful.

—ancn.

In the palm of my hand,
A dandelion rests,
Whispers of my breath gently caress its delicate form,
Carrying my wishes on wisps of air,
As it dances in the breeze,
Drifting northward,
Like umbrellas soaring with the wind's whims,
In the midst of stormy weather.
As the dandelion seeds float past you,
Spring rushes forth,
Asymphony of senses,
Acknowledging the vibrant season before me,
No matter how many dandelions I blow,
Or how many seeds scatter on the spring breeze,
Each one carries unspoken desires,
The flying dandelion seeds never unveil
The depth of wishes they hold for you, my dearest,
Veiled in silent intentions,
As they soar towards you,
The guardian of spring's essence,
In my world cloaked in autumn's hues.

—ancn.