Darkness the shroud has come again, cloaking your ever enervating body and shadowing the outer edges of your mind. Coldness, with serrated teeth, gnaws on flesh and your flame. Now you are but bones for the succumbing heralded by winter's clarion call. The call - its chill - frosty breath - speaks volumes of the declines and recessions. Of the shortening of day and dimming of light are the themes written and lived in this darkening time. Your night lengthens like death spreading out its robes of pitched eternity. Frosted scripts dictated by tenebrous thoughts deep in the hollows of an overcome spirit. And neither the world around is left spared. The timbered limbs of trees - ruined monuments of nature in cycle - stand bare and exalt, in unwilling morbid ostentation, the conqueror season. Your embattled body and its trials against the iced speared pricks of winter winds soldier through the darkened days and night's dominion. And it is through this - through the frozen, silent halls of winter - through benighted winter come - that you struggle and survive.
M.M. — 04-Dec-2014
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