I know this place.

I know the sounds.

The grey feeling of death unwelcome,

Too invading, too remorse.

I hear laughter,

Dead with age.

I'll wrap up my bones,

And leave them here.

As the snowflakes sting

Our hearts like bees,

Winter tries to drag us

Under,

Into a deceiving mass

Of beauty.

Spiraling down, down like a storm

Carrying us away

To bittersweet

Paradise