(no subject)
From inside I can see the snow,
Observed behind glass, a clear wall.
As the green turns into white,
I have loved to look upon tiny white atom like snowflakes and drift...
Into a place where the table only sits myself with,
empty chairs ,
Where food isn't served but,
life's silent voice,
life's paperback poems,
Written in script of elegance.
New words are given to me,
but i still remain the same,
and will forever.