Turning

A cold wind moves,

Painfully scraping cheeks,

Crisping dead leaves,

Shadows along the horizon,

Near the chill of days. 

Radiance gone, 

Diminished in the twilight,

Pale blotted clouds,

Gusts that tear through with icy fangs,

Hissing. 

Bleeding out into the night,

Standing starkly against,

Stone bricks freeze,

In the change of season. 

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