January,
stop being smitten
you're not suppose to smell like May
In fact, your breath wreaked
of frothy pines only yesterday
Your hair,
swept back with the blistering gales
palms peeled & cracked
your knuckles bruised pale
There is no time,
to go around parading and pretending
that your time is up
your parole is ending
The Tree & I,
we are sisters you see
we both are never made a fool
tomorrow your sky will blow gray
and we will again taste the hollowness of cool.
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