The rain comes swiftly,
To mourn the loss of another tonight.
Tears from Heaven,
Falling to Earth.
It pours down from the sky,
Drowning out the whimpers of the grieving few.
Was it really just yesterday,
You said you were far too young to die.
I think God agrees,
He keeps the gravediggers,
From laying you in the ground.
Rochester is a sanctum of sadness,
Even though few will ever feel the lose of you.

This will be,
My One Hundredth poem,
That I post on here.

I never thought,
That I'd have the confidence,
Or support, to get here.

These cold days,
Poetry is all I've got.
Where snow falls solemnly from looming clouds,
The only thing I surround myself with are words.
I miss the spring city,
Nothing could penetrate my armor of love.
For now that December has made it's descent, I am left in winter song,
Alas, for poetry, who's warm heart could melt the ice of sorrow.
Where will the fae dance tonight?
For reading poetry it makes my heart soar, and it makes my heart sore.
Snowflakes lace the winter grave of Autumn leaves,
And poetry, a silent goddess in the wind, has captured my tongue.
Where is the sun? In this winter's song,
For poems are the light in my dark.
Cold, the fingers that hold my pen,
Verse warms my soul.
Where am I? In this winter's song.

Nature is not your ally
she has nothing to do with one person’s actions or feelings
she didn’t ask for your permission
or rather yet your opinion
whether you love her flaws or not
you have to accept what she does
and that also concludes her final decision
for what she wants to become next