The wood holding it has died,
A shattered image of myself
Reflects through the misshapen pieces of glass.
I look down upon the desolate streets from my cluttered room.
The snowcovered grass yells for air,
Screaming that no one else can hear.
Tree tops stand bare and cold,
But don't say a word.
Dry Snow begins to pour from the thick mass up above.
My mind is torn,
While my mangled brain tries to process all the distorted information.
My heavy eyes begin to move. Everything is the way I remember it.
I go on to another day,
One of whom might be even more strange.
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