THE fading of these faces in a crowd; Petals falling from a black bough,
Husks sprung from the darkling buds of mayhem;
Christmas lights' shattered shells fluttering in the cruel air,
The lost whisper of all April has snared.
What is the sum of 8 and 5:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.