さよならの季節

Winter's breath hung low in the air, swaying branches and brushing past us with its fitful ebb and flow. The hoarse, gray sky turned away from the earth, disinterested. The bony branches and ragged grass looked as if they had been living and then forgot to continue. Artificial, as if encased in glass, in a sleep as deep as death. As if hollowed out and fixed with formaldehyde. Lifelike but still - choreographed, almost. The fields were a handsome place, laboured and waning composedly. The restless wind that possessed neither warmth nor bite. Everything stiff and quiet. The hush of anticipation. Winter was gone, but the memory of it lingered on. It felt as if death's reign had come to an end, had reached the end of its lease, like it had run out of things to destroy and ended up consuming itself to the bone. But it had left behind an aberrant nothingness, a strange absence, a void - pleading with muted hues, the trees held their leafless limbs up to heaven. The ache of creation rang through the emptiness - it echoed through the waste land, pining for something new

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*shakes head* too many adjectives and abstract nouns