The sigh of spring seems
- Distant on the plains.
The whisper of the Wind
ominous as it shakes, –
Every core.
The downpour of the rain
- Relentless to its gravity
A perpendicular descent
That stops the most wary, –
of Travelers.
The trees harken at,
the Crowing –
of the Death of the day.
This world, a torment –
Stripped of its flesh
the year –
of self-Isolation.

An accompanied poem to my Studio Art Major, wondering what people thought about it.

Critique it at your leisure.