I wish I could ariculate,
but it has all been written before.
And yet here I am still dreaming of the ineffable, the inexplicable, the as yet udetermined.

Oh to be a cliche,
idealising times of the past
while th present grows bleaker.

Things lack beauty.
The beauy I find in books and films, are lies when it comes to my reality.
And the arduous task of going on feels like a puzzle impossible to solve but one I cannot leave alone.
Things lack beauty,
for me.

Life lacks the luster I have been shown previously existed,
and by romantising the previous, I only pull myself furthe away from the beauty I know must be here.
It must.
Must't it?

However the rare specks of it I find are the ones in her eyes.
And they parade themselves infront of me, knowingly.

But such things have been written before and will be wrote again.
And yet still I wish to articulate.

Oh to be a cliche.

Gazing through my
Window on a cold
Dark snowy night
I see a rare beauy
Tonight
A truly lovely sight

The snow is falling tonight like tiny dancers twirling all night
And the weather gets colder tonight and
The crisp frosty wind
Blowing all through the snowy night,

And mountain tops turned to Snow and winter chills
Fills the air

And the children are shivering so cold and
The temperature has dropped until the cold air they breathe chills there lungs to
the bone and winter has truly arrived.