BurntRamen

The rot of leaves, the fall of winter The sentineled patter of rain against the shutter - The Willows partake in their sacrament Of Holy Tears. Dark rings now light, the infestation banished The sky overcast, in a graying melancholia Oh what potential you had - Weep now, here, in my arms May the red return to your cheeks with firm resolve. The Caterpillars aren’t worth it.