Cherry blossoms are the perfect crown
to wreath the head of a Christmas jester.
They're gaudy and perfect,
stylish in yet another season.
They rain down behind my eyes, sometimes.
Just like the ones in the back flutter past my window and catch in my hair.
It's the wrong season for cherry blossoms.
All the trees are dead.
Everyone thinks Winter is the season for the dying,
they keep praying the grey clouds will give them wings
so that they may fly away.
They know not that their feet are trapped in lead.
And I wish I could forgive them their sins
and dip their hearts in cherry blossoms,
if only they may fly...but I am scared.
I'm so scared they'll leave me behind.
