My first day of winter was greeted
by sparse naivety, 5 feet shy
from the lurking sun
and the demons that it begot
to inherit the better tomorrow
once yearned for by now mere bones.

Oh cruel snow, do you still anoint the world
like a careless dove on a bastard’s day?
Fire only comes with age, and the foregrounds
remain the same. The apparitions
stay hidden beneath the fog,
like the log within one's inner eye
(afflicting the once familiar)

love's solstice falls,
like a virginal revelation
in the dead of winter, revealing only
the now fragile light in me.
Last edited by Bleed Away at Dec 24, 2013,