the winter trees, as naked as my soul, against a backdrop of blank skies, no colour to behold, Hello again, feelings of futility as I try to salvage the pieces to make me whole again, like, events are explosions, that project, splatters of my essence, which manifest into motions, and give birth to the evolution, of my outer layer, which thickens with every prayer, more than just a moody rhyme sayer, if you, knew, my inner movements, the blueness, of feeling, the nuisance of healing, every time I follow my heart, I lie bleeding, the numbness from numerous ventures, I wish my intelligence was artificial, so I could compartmentalise, only feel something superficial, as feelings are a risk, I throw caution towards a brisk breeze, watch it return as an icicle, to stab me with a dead kiss, resulting in me, bleeding, naked, under, autumn leaves.