She floated down into the meadow quietly, silencing the air, by stilling it.
The surrounding oak trees smiled, recognizing her power, not fully
understanding her majesty, but appreciating it and loving her
capableness.
As she twirled her skirt, which barely touched the ground, the earth began
changing from brown to the most marvelous white. Winter threw her hands
in the air, sending icy fluffs of cotton into the atmosphere. They floated down
softly and quietly at first, but as they fell, they got bigger, and wetter, and
they were no longer dainty.
When winter was finished, the landscape had magically transformed from a
dried dead-looking thing to a gorgeous, alive blanket of pure white
beauty, that seemed to be twinkling with diamond crystals.
She smiled. It was time for her nap. She laid down on the meadow, so gently
she did not put a dent in the snow, instead, she waited, for the first footsteps
which would not come until morning.
Lonely lyricist lyrics long lasting in lobe.
Pondering while prone. Poor poets prose probe.
Interrupting inception, interactions inflection,
slumber's conception. Somnolence secession.
Many mornings mulling. Careworn. No capableness culling.
Designs dejected day. Dragging dim, dexterity dulling.
Greatest gift grievously giving great grief.
There are those thoughts that rob like a thief.
Writing words woefully. Waxing, waning wit.
Rhyming rhymes ruefully. Alliteration reluctantly writ.
-Angel Fatale-