Winter comes.

What purple pleasure is waiting

To hide within and stare with out

Is still murky gray walls

Fading from sorrows caverns

Ways

Down the stairs in dreary glowing

stones

As to throw yourself across rooms

Funny is it not

The sounds of tempers

The colors rot

Lips crease from use

Drinks fallen with confused

People

Standing at a door

Never more.

How is it?

To write or not is

To nothing from here

As to find out nothing

Not to be

As to think is write

To say

Hello beautiful people

We are now Plutonians!?