with arms embracing destruction
catalyst for change has arrived once more
dreams are born out of the sorrow of darkness
and as before bare the light hidden within the chamber of the soul
three thirty AM
and I awake with no surprise at the time
I search for the bridge back into my dreams
and as I try sleep alludes me
with her trance I am finally
to a white world which brings forth the day.
The white world which is our permanent realm throughout these months of winter
my son asks me when the summer will come.
Are our hours to be judged upon the thoughts ruminated within time tinted white?
You do not want to speak and I cannot know your thoughts
so what else but your expressions am I to judge?
In the final hours
of the shortest day
joy seeps like water through a sieve
remaining is the lonely state
to which we are tied in birth and death
separable to all but ourselves.