Walking through the door,
The cold winter air
Brushes through my hair.

It kisses my cheek
And hugs me,
With a frozen embrace.

As I look down,
To the colder than ice ground,
There’s a dandelion.

It makes the world still,
So still its hard to breath

Staring down at this flower,
Down at the end of my feet.

Almost like magic,
It survives in the freeze
And as white as the snow.

The sun shines down,
Onto this flower
Frozen in time.

I used to dream,
Of beautiful greens.

Crazy adventures,
That I would venture.

Rolling sunsets
That never made me upset.

But...

Those days are gone,

Now I sleep,
With a black sheet,

Covering up,
All my dreams.

As if shielded,
From the slumber.

Then I wake,
Only to ponder.

On what could have been.

As a soft, yellow light,
Opens the morning sun rise.

There’s a man,
With tools,
In his hands.

The face brushed with dirt,
And the depravity of his rest.

Comes home to nothing,
But a mess.

He slumps down into his bed,
As if it was preaching for his head.

Tries what little time,
To enjoy,

What he’s got left.