Superficiel par les agents

I stand with arms outstretched, waiting for warmth to fall upon my face.
Time and temperature conspire to corrode me, weakening my armature.
I am blowing away, my friend, the storms being far too much to stand against.
My strength has been spent fighting to stand,
and I lack the will for self-preservation.

I have ended in this place. 
Used by small creatures for shelter, by larger as sustenance. 
As the leaves of future springs tunnel past my blinded eyes, I smile at the transient hope. 
I fear not the fall, and it’s foreshadowing of bleaker days,
for I cannot see death anyway.

The cold welcomes my weary soul and I oblige it’s indifferent mood,
for it offers me more than I need.

If you should come knock upon my door, you will find my garden in bloom.
This I have left for you alone.