All the magic (I'll ever need)

Silly people, the weather isn't wet. You're wet. The weather simply is.

Through the tree's the fall winds hush, 

a whisper to tempt the faintest chill, 

Into the streets of lonely promise 

Fly the weary in their haste 

To burn the candle to it's quick 

and eager to let life pass the milestone of contentment, 

wrestle their daily malcontent. 

Though as the afternoon in respite sits. 

I walk with calm endurance. 

Watching busy minds with sadness and the slightest thread of envy. 

Still I cannot rush to save my soul and miss the faintest miracle, 

of newfound snow from skyward eves. 

If you will slow your pace and trust a stranger 

we might find no stranger introduced 

but rather unannounced only, 

by chance and willingly rectified. 

Yet still they rush, too immersed in situations prearranged 

with no want to be found eager in their tardy disposition. 

Observing in withdrawn temperament 

these madmen who run for cover at slightest downpour 

and miss entirely that which is the purest of wonders. 

Melting snow on outstretched hands. 

And from their streetside prisons, crazy they call me. 

To endure a mild cold with possible ill in exchange for all the magic I'll ever need.