Winter

         Everything is gray,
The sky, the snow, the road, the house.
All of it frozen in place because of the
damned season. The season that traps
you inside your home, forcing you to
look at the walls that enclose you. You
have to listen to the buzzing of electric
lights instead of the sound of the birds,
the warmth of artificial heating instead
of the life giving sun. Everything about
the season is unnatural, our spirits bent
and gnarled into mere figments of their
former shape.
        Everything is gray,
The ghosts of our past and the villains
of our present. There is no escape from
that. There is no place like home. You
are trapped and unable to escape, days
turning into gut wrenching crazed dens
of the worst kind of discontent as your
mind blurs and your senses dull. It is
all so dull and inanimate. Everything
is carved from the rubble of dreams.
The dust and the leftovers left only to
the wolves who brave the winters chill,
while the rest of the lambs try to find
peace in pain.
        Everything is gray.