On a bumpy car ride through the rain,
I look out at the world through tear stained panes.
The leafless trees stretch o'er the road,
Trying to grasp ahold of each other.
But to no avail.
Their hope is stale,
And they're rightfully bare.
Don't you even care,
The wondrous work of writing.
Without writing, the trees are bare and the wind is bitter.