Clayborn

Who speaks for the wind?I can still feel my skin, The haunting trees loom chill, and omniscient as I pass threw them.       Arched branches look down, cold and almost desperate from here. Orange argyle socks rolled, straight up to my knees. I squeeze tight to my green sweater shell. It's hue, dull, in the yellow autumn air.                 Fingers make there way up, Hands shaking; hide my eyes, Tears follow. I can't hold them back any longer. Each drop of fear,              each ounce, of regret and hurt falling from my eyes.   Where do I even stand on this?              Necessity. The things that we value the most, and take for granted, t...