The little petals,
gliding softly across the winter storm,
they bring a little dust into the bottle,
that tremors in fear.
The soft howling of the winter storm,
sands swishing and swooshing,
mixing everything from dusk to dawn.
From the little mix,
accidentally poured to a bottle of wine
they do not match.
Not at all.
But the wine swings,
spits venom into its ear,
then comes
a newly mixed wine.
That contains only
emptiness that will soon be the poison flowing into the stream.
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