What Paradise?

What Paradise?

this w h i t e,
is snow, no more,
it is my shroud.

i wait and wait
and w a i t.
springs don’t arrive
nor does l i f e.
but the fallen do
death does.
death, death,
and just d e a t h
all my seasons are the fall
and just d e a t h falls.

these beads do not move.
my fingers now have turned c o l d.
i cannot count the dead anymore.

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