December Dreary and then the Sun; a Poem
Gray, dreary, December’s light wearies – of shining and so it goes, our emotional temperament slows. And we grind to a halt, in the seed of our Souls – our swollen pride goes, receding into the desolate night of winter. A grin turns to stone. Faces made of bone. Cold. Alone. Undone. No fun. No sun, well little. And we belittle ourselves for the depths of our faults. We are barren. We grope in the semi-darkness and chill. There is no thrill. We, who we are, are unto ourselves. Waiting for merry elves that come not on the 24th but sometime in February when warmth peeks and our emotion speaks of spring. Yet, now we sit where it is dim. Some in joy; some will enjoy. Others will suffer an aloneness of the frigid kind, while many in mankind rejoice and have hope. Glee for some. A sense of despair and doom for others. Life’s unrepentant, inequitable cycle continues. And we work to draw ourselves from a desolate hole, to get whole, to begin again, but when? When?