Writer1326

You don't need to speak the words aloud,

for your eyes already tell me the story.

And, for all of its glory,

I'd rather be stuck in a large crowd,

than be blinded by your imaginary clouds. 

Time is a fickle thing,

never in one spot twice.

Always on the run,

playing a wicked game,

with the mortals it torments.

It whispers sweet riddles,

melodies as soothing as a fiddle.

With a story only the wind knows,

I watch in dead silence as the snow,

falls onto the land, engulfing it in a hug.

Each snowflake dances in the icy air,

as animals come closer; warm and snug.