The wind whispered

wake up

Unto the song birds.

The song birds sing

wake up

To the city

The city clashes to it's people  

Wake Up

Miserable the people get up.

But at least the trees are happy.

I'm not sure which it is correct anymore.

If the slight red in the sky means the day has died,

Or like a newborn baby begins a new life.

The deafening silence of winter,  

The dead of winter.

Contrasted with the first breath of a new day.

Witnessed by few,

The early risers,
The late night workers,
The sleep deprived insomniacs
Skipping mental stones wishing for sleep.

Out upon my window pane
Willow leaf gusty day,

Early dawn yet arrived,
Silhouette shadows swoosh-swoop.

A storm is coming just you wait,
A mournful reason to remember today.

Tention snap, crackle, and sizzle,
Boiling over results harsh fizzle.
----
Quick run flee fly

Hit past mile and mile-faster full dial!
No game swoosh swash we lost them a while.

Flutter flourish leaves form the figure,
Death has come this holiday season.

This autumn season
For fall scented candles
Give depression a reason
To prove a counterexample

For fall scented candles
Remind us of winter
To prove a counterexample
How people wither

Remind us of winter
Seasonal depression's returns
How people wither
With personal concerns

Seasonal depression returns
To prepare for a storm
With personal concerns
Leaving little warm.

Give depression a reason
To prepare for a storm
Leaving little warm
This autumn season.

A painting is passion mixed in
Acrillic Plastic pasted upon paper.

Photographs focus found
Phenomena in plates of particular potions.

Poetry pleads rhythmic prose
Picked per perfection

Yet none of this can describe you.

A relaxing river runs a
Rivalry to you.

A surreal sunset's similarity is a
Strong contender.

Fall's festive fervor holds a
Flame to compete,

Yet all run short of describing you.

You are the shore of a beach,
The gentle capped waves lapping at your feet.

You are the kiss of sunrise peaking over the mountains promising a new day

You are the first cool breeze on a warm autumn day.

You are the smell of fall foliage and
Fresh apple pies in the oven.

There is no one way to describe you,
Just a thousand things.

Almost as beautiful as you.

A poet is a bird with clipped wings,
Plummeting from the sky.

One who's dying words are not calculated,
Not woven,
Not cultivated
Rhymed
Rhythemed
Repeated
Recorded.

The words are pure.
Simple
Sound
Sung
Then silent.

They are only meant for the wind to hear.

That way the wind can
Whisper
Watch
Whistle
Warble

What if the winds rattling
Window pain

Is actually your loved ones
Last lullaby?

What if the weeping of the wind
Fosters fear former forgotten?