Cascading color skies which melt with the night
Alone in the rain with such a drop less goodbye
And the path with its reflection and chances of blue
To the end of the trail where there stands a tired two
The snow blankets above always a threat cold remission
The oils on the canvassing leaves thoughts smeared inquisition
Lights along the corridor knock upon doors of beauty
Each tiled with brushstrokes of small worlds tied in coalescence
Products of autumn’s last front etched in memory.
Christopher Baird 2011 ©
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