The ground used to be
green; now it is pale like the moon on a clear, night sky. The snow has fallen,
and only brown bristles remain; but for how long? Those thickets of bristle
were once sturdy, and now they appeared to be dainty; fading ever so slowly,
they were warring with the cold, harsh snow; but inevitably the snow will win,
it always does. The leaves on the lone tree have fallen, and now the hundreds
of bare branches rattle in the wind like soulless arms flailing aimlessly as if
they were chasing the very leaves that kept them warm and bodacious; but most
of all colourful, which was an illusion of grandeur on this colourless canvas.
The sky, much like everything else, is bleak and lacks colouration; even the
sun’s rays have been hampered by the dull clouds that draped the once-blue sky.