a bud slowly withers in my hands
and i am greeted once again with a dismal, desolate winter
if i reach far enough
my hands grasp for ice
my gasps count for nothing underwater
i might as well ration my breaths
will i ever meet my spring
without his face fading in the colorless sky?
perhaps this was all i was meant to be
a cold, bare limb upon a leaning tree
hollow and weak
you of angelic creatures
can you speak of God?
ask Him, what accounts of my suffering?
stretch out your wings
take me with you
before i drown in these sorrows
before i lose against this winter
