Winter's in
when my throat finds a catch.
The fallen find their glory
and there is dignity in death.
The dark finds reasons to linger,
never leaves, stays behind the light:
seasons are persistent,
like a tune incessant in a head.
It doesn't have to freeze to be cold,
it doesn't have to be cold to be warm;
life's compressed in short stories, albeit
with endings too existential for hurt.
I will stay with the nip in the air,
the fragrance, emanating only from the crushed -
the scars on the earth are now in stark relief,
I find redemption in a warm sun which refuses to sulk.
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