The leaves of the last remaining sentries,
Continue their hopeless rebellion,
Buffeted by falling ice and gusts.
Bright green teardrops fight against the dominating grey and white,
A splash of colour lines the sides of the road.

A boy's feet slip, but he remains upright,
Continuing on along the treacherous path.
Where is he going?
He walks with purpose towards that which he knows will **** him,
His face gathers cuts from the winds serrated breath,
His hands start to bleed from every time fell.
But still he continues, unafraid, undeterred,
Certain in his undying thirst to walk,
He gathers pace, filled with strength,
His rebellion now begins to approach,
No question, his choice is foolhardy and pointless,
There is no chance of victory against such an opponent
Yet he fights through the crowds, running in the opposite direction,
And dives head first into his life's end.
But he survives.
Through some miracle of luck or chance,
He reaches the final shore,
Surrounded by green in a grey world,
Crushed but still breathing,
Though bleeding, still strong,
He takes the final step.