White Demons

Location

52361
United States
41° 38' 36.8268" N, 92° 0' 27.8352" W

The season of Autumn was about in the air,
in your soul,
under the skin of the ground it cringed and blew the wind,
swirling the fire leaves everywhere.
Like fireworks in the sky.
The wind was chilly but the air warm.
A warm, dark angel wrapped you in a space of hot breath
that was blown away briefly by the white demons
who sent cold, threatening white demon snows.
But the snow eludes.
For now, there is only the black stream
that looks like a deep bloody cut in the skin,
edged by ground blanketed in the falling fire leaves.
Dead souls who have spent their life green
in the warm glow of the summer sun
now fall and lie on the ground as fallen soldiers do.
Above, the shaking wrath of the fireball trees,
holding onto their men and the white demon blows them
and topples them one by one or many by many,
cold pushing them like a bully to the ground.
So all the world seems ablaze
and yet it is not warm.
You can walk through a crunching, fiery-colored world
where the angel is warm but the demon is cold
and you can watch the soldiers fall in the black water
that is the cut in the skin;
They are like stars would be in black space.
Bright, floating flames encumbered and succumbed
to lie forever in cool darkness,
floating until they wither.
Like the salmon in the waters,
who turn red and beautiful before they live their last day
and send the next into the world,
This Autumn is a blazing wildfire who burns past your vision.
The white demon blows it ever faster,
ever the impatient one.
The one who likes to stay around
while the dark angel is shy,
but beautiful and fleeting.
You see her once
and then she blows away.
White demons on the ground.
All the warmth of angels gone
and the sparkling of white stars blinds and flashes,
crystals on the wound,
healed over for now,
but it lives still beneath
like a bruise under the skin.
But though the white demon is long and greedy of time,
It cannot defeat every soldier.
It can leave a survivor
that raise a fiery hand through the cold snows.
A crimson, bloody leaf
that makes a spot of warmth.
Maybe, in time, the white demon can change.
It can be pretty and it can be nice.
Winter is not so cruel.
White demons are not so bad.

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