Change, a poem

There is a decay to things. Time marches on; so do we. Leaves fall, colors turn.
Dirt hardens, crunches. Bark freezes, dies. My heart burns
hot as ice, deadly to the touch. Slowly approaching. Stomping leaves to dust, mulch with frostbite. Death approaches, changing us. I can see my breath fogging up my sight. It’s cold. Change is here.

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