Winter fog is space where frost crystals grow
It was the day my last roses died
Raucous coughing of a lonely lost crow
Full moon rises in a crispy blue night
On weathered roofs icycles hang low
Steps crunching in sparkling powdery white
Silent mountains high up look to me,
in the valley below
In the Whirlwind is a poetic storm that frees history from the cages of corruption and puts it in the hands of everyday people. Words are weaved into a new fashion statement that has nothing to do with runways but everything to do with projects!
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Ron