Snowytrees stare up at the frosty sky,
As the snow starts to melt .
Their leaves start to flap,
Like an Eagles wing.
Their baring bodies,
Start to dance like a ballerina.
The beautiful faces,
From the tree begin to roar
Like the roaring people from the opera.
And they live like luxurious v.i.p.
On the way home,I met a boy called Winter. He had frosty eyes the colour sky-blue,he had a heart as soft as fresh white snow. He sang a soft-hearted song to the tweeting snowy owls,as the sun rose the snow melted.
On the way to school, I met a boy called Sunflower. His eyes were the colour of Egyptian blue,and his hair was as silky as the petals from a gleaming flower. He sang a melodious song as the sun faded into the vault sky.
On the way to the park,I met a boy called Stone. He had a brick hard body and his skin colour was grey and if anyone dared to touch him they would turn into stone.
On the way to the shop, I met a girl called Snow. She had crystal clear eyes and such soft skin that if you touched her,it would mutate you into a soft,fury and vexed aminal.
To their surprise the heavy duty door was crowbarred open; suddenly a booming voice spoke.”How dare you mutter to yourselfs.”With every step the black figure submitted vibrations which surged through the moaning floorboards.Then,with a howl from a chaotic breeze the figure put his foot in the room, with ash traces behind him.A deafening screech could be heard behind the anonymous intruder, as owls were hooting on a nearby tree.Unexpectedly all the windows shattered open the fresh air, instantly red and blue lights shone as bright as the ash moon.The door burst open; without warning.”FBI hands up.”The black figure had lost all hope in him so his world froze in time.”HELP HELP UP HERE.”A FBI agent ran up to the room in hyper speed to them; blood was the only thing the worldwide criminal had.
Water cascades down the waterfall.
While black swallows plunge for their prey (fish).
Flowers bloom in Spring.
The sun shines in the morning sky.
The laughter of children can be heard.
The smell of grilled chicken fills everyone’s noses.
Gale-forces sparkle the leaves everywhere.
The moist morning.
The dim sun isn’t in sight only clouds are.
All ages glare at the snow.
Snow drift down on to the frozen lakes.
Icing is glazed onto the cake.
The bike has a deafening sound of a rattlesnake; from the bell.
The bike,is a paralysed soul patiently waiting for its return in the race.
The bike is a ancient ornament;now fungi and curled plants dominate its landscape.
Decaying in the sun while the grass grows;in isolation.
The bull handles are no longer pristine quality;only rust roams the handles.
The deflated tyres are incapable of use anymore.
Smeared,snapped chains have a desire of use again.
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