DeciduousA Story by Piccole Parole
Death seemed to always come in the fall, as if the two shared some sort of friendship. Cheer surrounded by despair, like the trees surrounded by leaves. Eventually the wind pick up or some old man would come with his rake, the leaves would all be gone. The trees would be stripped clean and bare for everyone to see. The ground would become frozen and hard.
© 2019 Piccole Parole |
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