Query

How did I end up here?

Last I knew I was hanging from a tree

Am I drowning in this flowing byway?

Or am I able to float above  the debris?

The sun shines on my many colors

Glowing  at me in utter dismay

As if it knows an ominous secret

Another cycle of seasons at play.

Icy crystals will blanket nature

Wind whispers a future path

Dark winter the foreboding traitor

Time designing  the aftermath.

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