Winter

Where I live there are no trees.
Brick houses are rooted in to the ground,
and they breathe
and they sway in the wind.
These houses lean in an ominous manner
providing shade to the ground creatures
as their windows provide shelter for the rain and cold seasons.
They creak and they moan,
they groan and they scream,
regardless of who is around to hear
they will not age in silence.
Where I live there are no trees.
The houses grow tall
and crash to the ground in time.
They change color with the seasons
as their paint goes
from green
to orange
and red
and yellow
to grey.
The sky is littered with crystalline clouds
and stars
which explode as the climate changes
and showers the world with refracted light
bringing in a tide of silence.
A rainbow paints the world
and all that could be heard
is the sound of the sky meeting the earth
and them dancing
as millions of shards pile upon one another.
The streets are empty now.
All there is is color and light.
Where I live there are no trees.
Just the buildings that shelter the creatures
that were once man.
These buildings that have a life of their own now.
Once nothing more than small humble homes,
now a jungle of apartmeans and skyscrapers.
The canopies stealing sun from the smaller more modest buildings
which hollow and die in the harsh seasons.
This winter will be bad.
I can feel it.
And it excites me.
The nights will glow and burst with aura as the day blinds.
Then as summer comes and the crystal wears into sand.
The buildings will breathe again
and what man has become will roam the floor.
There are no trees.