The cold breath of winter shadow, misting the day with bleak and sordid sorrow. Sorrow without face nor name to call, as it drenches in waves of what should be, dwelling with past yearnings of what could or might have been. Frosty air livens and quickens senses, naked in neural freshness, frisking skin with icy nails while the mind falls asleep. Wanting to hide, hide away amongst visions of bright and sunny days, where alluring warmth embraced in vivid light, can pierce the capture of unsightly thought.

Why oh why must this journey through winter dark be so very, very cold, vacant inside mind, body and soul? Is the day not haven from this nightmare so old? Can we run from this savage beast or will it remain, locked inside, inside the cavern of empty light? Alone we stand in this rapture of winter sight and again the season has shift and the morrow will dawn; in hope do we lust for the return of summer’s morn.

And is it not in hibernation that truth be sought? From the isolation and solitude of winter dark does nightfall not shine its hidden torch? As in day there is night, where the shadows of northern light illuminate inner thought. And try as we might, to fight with sorrow, shadow and the hallow dark, alone we do stand in winter’s mark.

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