Take a train,
Write few lines,
Mention plain
Snow and pines,
Better yet
Lack there of.
Winter's end,
Them you loathe-
An eyesore,
Call it "yore".
So it goes,
Write down "past".
As one knows,
Ruins last
More than tress
Of the rift,
Twinkling mess-
Poor man's gift,
And, alas,
More than us.
As decay
Faced, in truth,
Neither grey
Hair nor youth.
Otherwise
It would note
Snow and pines,
Be, in short,
Not averse
To a verse.
Then again,
Walls are mute.
Take the train,
Same old route.
Tracks are dry.
Snow and pines.
Should you cry,
Cite her eyes.
"Can't recall?"
- "Not at all."
Turn the page.
To your left
Is the stage
That's bereft
Of the blur,
Screeching plow.
Highlight "her",
Cross out "snow",
Take a sit
And repeat.