Day 226.
Autumn has drained the blood from the trees.
Winter's bones are all that remain.
Thousands of wishes that once grew abundant.
Dead and brittle now, on the terrain.
The hiss of the wind, and the bite of the cold.
He wonders if he should have kissed her.
Summer dreams are all gone, cooked away by the sun.
The Spring was the best, but I miss her.
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