The shortest day.

Snow had fallen,
the morning before.
The bleak midwinter cold,
seeping ice to warmth's core.

The crackling pots of warm air,
line this house of discontent.
The piles of books, and glazed
dust and cobwebs.
Oh damn this Winter Solstice!

This day will never end.
Nor does the horizon,
as the dire grey leaks into,
the rigor mortis of the land.
It screams death,
the silence of this land,
all beasts and creatures,
have left in earnest.
Left, the ripening decay,
and scent of fathom dilapidation.

Throw some more onto the fire.
Move a little closer.
Inhale. Exhale.
Breath in the dust thats lined an age.
Inhale. Exhale.
Become one with nature's systole.