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winters breeze and gentle snow a single tree lonesome and tall it's bare branches creepy and scrawny death is what it breathes and death is what is screams out of the window-a cold barren wasteland the contrasting canary yellow of the window frame it burns against the image of the snow and the tree it's as if it could all just ignite, and burn burn with intense heat burn like a new born star burn until there is nothing left nothing left; not a soul; not a shadow; not a whisper... ...but it doesn't no warmth no love no life