Sunset the day after our winter storm.
Day two of the abnormally early winter storm in Denver.
Branches sway in an evening breeze,
as we walk in comfortable silence.
How soon will the season change?
Freedoms no man can understand,
sacrificed to prove their reality.
How soon will the seasons change?
The blessing of absolute choice,
and I chose absolute separation.
And the season begins to change.
A picture of your perfection,
rejected for perverse illusions.
And the seasons begin to change.
Still searching for ways to blame you,
for allowing me to choose myself.
Everything has changed.